The Line Down the Center of the Room is Most Aesthetically Displeasing
by Shirokuri
Summary: In which Newt and Hermann are roommates and may or may not officially hate each other forever. Follow as they attempt to navigate the strange new life that is college and being each other's roommate. Also featuring other members of the Jaeger program. College AU, but I'm not in college (yet) so it's probably all sorts of inaccurate. Rated T only because I don't watch my language.
1. Spiderweb Cracks, Terrible Angelic Light

They first meet as college freshmen two weeks before the start of the fall semester, and there isn't anything cheesy like "hate at first sight" or "instant frenemies" or any of that sentimental bullshit. Though to be fair, it's probably pretty close.

They're randomly assigned to the oldest, and consequently the shittiest, dorms of the school, and as he stands in front of the building, part of Newt's brain (the part with the common sense) tells him that perhaps this structure doesn't quite adhere to state building codes anymore. Nevertheless, he grimly shoulders his backpack (overstuffed) and drags his suitcase (oversized) along after him.

The interior appears fine until he takes a good, close look at it. Spiderweb cracks line the topmost edges of the walls, where some sort of fungus is happily growing on the damp wallpaper. Everything smells of concentrated cleaning fluid, a noxious odor that burns the inside of his nose. A sign on the elevator announces its out-of-orderness, and he takes a moment to roll his eyes before pushing his sleeves up and dragging his hulk of a suitcase up the stairs.

As he stands in front of the door to his new dorm room (they put him on the topmost floor, of course), he fishes around in his pocket for the keycard to the door. It's a credit-card-sized piece of plastic, and he knows, just _knows_, he'll lose it before a month is up.

He's relieved he got there before him roommate, and he takes his time weighing the pros and cons of each side of the room. The door is on the right side, but so is the window, and he sure as hell doesn't want to be woken up every morning by the glare of the sun in his face (he really isn't a morning person, and those blinds look like they're at least a hundred years old). He unzips his suitcase and starts dumping his notebooks on the desk to the left.

By the time he's becoming comfortably settled in and increasingly convinced he needs to move the closet (it's right under the fire sprinklers, for Pete's sake, what good is that supposed to do?), all his personal belonging are strewn all over the left side of the room. He shoves the empty suitcase under the bed just as he hears muffled irregular footsteps approaching.

"What is all this damn mess?"

His first impression of his roommate is this:

_Oh God, he's a nerd isn't he. I mean we're all nerds here, but he's _that_ kind of nerd, the _nerd_ kind of nerd. The _nerd_ nerd. The one your mother always warned you about._

But of course he only says, "Yeah, sorry about that. I'll get it cleaned up in a bit. Do you mind having the right side?"

"Keep to your side, and I won't care." His nameless (so far; he'll have to rectify this) roommate stalks irately into the room, worn sweater hanging loosely around his sad, thin frame. Newt notices the cane in his hand and the limp in his left leg, thinks he's much to young to be needing a cane. Thinks perhaps he'll keep his tongue in check around this fragile-looking wisp of a person (who, he can't help but note, is still somehow taller than he is).

"I'm Newton Geiszler, hopeful biology major with an emphasis in animal physiology. I sometimes bring home the odd specimen or two, so if you see any jars with floaty things in it it'd probably be best to leave them alone." He sticks his hand out in what he thinks is an amicable gesture, but his roommate turns from his suitcase to give him an impatient glare.

"Is that allowed in the dorms?"

Newt shrugs. "Hey, what they don't know can't hurt them."

His roommate's lip curls in disgust. "Then I suppose I must establish right now that you may not, under any circumstance, cross over this line – " he draws his cane in a line along the floor between their beds " – or otherwise place any of your… _specimen_ in my space without my permission. Understood?"

Newt gapes at him, running the entire speech over in his head again. What is he, a child being scolded by a teacher for running into the classroom after recess with mud all over his hands? He's already sixteen now; who does this guy think he is? His mother? Actually, no, his mother is several times cooler than this curmudgeon rummaging through a battered old suitcase filled with horrible knit sweaters (which number much too many to be presents from elderly relatives; he actually likes them doesn't he).

"I gotta get to the door, man," he replies, struggling not to rise to the challenge with a flurry of colorful adjectives. "It's on your side of the room."

"Very well. You may have a small pathway with which you may access the door."

"Kinda like the Polish Corridor, huh?" Newt tries to joke, World War II history lessons still fresh in his mind (hey, his teacher had been attractive and he'd actually stayed awake in class to impress her). His roommate only bristles in response.

"If that was supposed to be a joke, I didn't find it amusing at all," he spits.

"Whoa, chill man. Are you German? I've been trying to place that accent. Thought it sounded familiar. I was born in Germany, by the way. Berlin. Barely two months after the Wall started coming down. Pretty crazy, isn't it?"

"My nationality has nothing to do with the fact that you have a terrible sense of humor."

"Well, better terrible than none at all," Newt snaps. "Are you always like this or do you just have some sort of complex? Whose shit idea was it even to put us together?"

"Get a transfer then." He doesn't even look up from his unpacking, that absolute bastard.

"_You_ get the damn transfer."

And that's how they come to hate each other's guts whilst simultaneously refusing to just get the hell away from the other (both of them are much too stubborn to back off; I said _you_ go ask for a transfer, dammit).

* * *

Newt has a theory, which he thinks he has plenty of viable data to support (starting from, say, sophomore year of high school perhaps), that his brain doesn't became fully functional until he's had at least five shots of black coffee and the time is after ten o'clock at night. The day before classes begin both conditions are met (and in the case of the coffee, far surpassed), and he's fidgety, his fingers restless to do something - anything - thoughts racing along faster than the speed of light (not actually possible, he's aware, but nobody ever accused him of coming up with the most creative hyperboles; he's a scientist, dammit, not an author).

He's so wrapped up in his own world, blasting the music in his headphones so loudly he can feel his head vibrating, the entrails of a very legally-acquired squirrel carcass laid out neatly and lovingly on a tray in front of him, that it takes him an entire five minutes to register Hermann's (Newt finally found his name) loud conspicuous throat-clearing.

"Some people," Hermann hisses, "don't sleep at ungodly hours and would like some peace at night."

"I've got headphones on, haven't I?"

"At that volume you might as well not have them."

"Oh really?" Newt unplugs the headphones, and the heavy guitar and drums rush to fill the aural void of the room. "This ok then?" he shouts over the din.

"Dammit!" Hermann storms over to the laptop on Newt's desk (storms as best as he can with his leg) and slams it shut, cutting off the music.

"I thought we weren't allowed to cross onto each other sides," Newt snarls, grabbing onto the front of the Hermann's pajamas (an oversized t-shirt; he's surprised it isn't stuffy old-man pajamas). "You think you can make all the rules here? You think you can break 'em?"

"Get your hands off me!" Hermann shoves away Newt, who stumbles into the edge of his desk. Something rolls off onto the floor. He hopes it wasn't anything delicate or expensive. Or small and hard to find.

"Will you two shut up?" Someone from the room next to theirs pounds on the wall between them. There's another muffled voice, but thank God there's only a supply closet to the other side of their room or they'd rack up enough complaints to get themselves kicked out of the dorm or something. Newt isn't sure, and the part of his brain with the common sense is telling him he shouldn't find out but other parts of his fully functional brain – more belligerent parts – are drowning it out in a chorus of messy emotions.

"Fuck you! You wanna go?" By now he's so hopped up on adrenaline and the fourth cup of coffee in the hour that he's this close, _this_ close, to plowing straight through the wall like the kool-aid man or some other stupid shit like that. But somehow Hermann manages to pull him back from kicking the wall out of sheer pent-up energy and he's reconsidering the recent considerable increase in his caffeine uptake (it probably wasn't exactly the best idea now that he's taken a second to think, to really _think_, about it).

"You are _impossible_," Hermann says once Newt calms down and shrinks from the Hulk back into a pouty teenager. "It's the first day of the semester tomorrow; go to sleep, and for God's sake,_ stop drinking coffee at one in the morning_."

* * *

When Newt rises blearily from the last dregs of sleep, the room entire is glowing with a terrible angelic light because dammit, Hermann most definitely left the blinds open on purpose to get revenge for last night. He groans and rolls over to face the wall, cocooning himself in his blankets to escape from the aforementioned terrible angelic light. From underneath his pillow, his phone vibrates and the first movement of Beethoven's _Sonatina Pathetique_ (he's not even sure how or why he knows this song, classical music not exactly being his usual genre) blares, muffled, into his ear.

"Shit." He lets the word hiss slowly from between his teeth like steam from a thin pipe (again, that whole figurative language thing; he's not an author). Reluctantly, he fishes under his pillow to drag out the offensive phone.

"Shit." This time he spits it out like a watermelon seed. It's a good thing he set the alarm to repeat every ten minutes until he manually shut it down because it's 9:15 already and the alarm had been set for 8:15. Not to mention his Biochemistry class started at 9:00 and he'd been hoping to secure the seat next to the cute blonde.

He throws on the first t-shirt and pair of jeans he finds in the closet, takes a few seconds to brush his teeth (definitely not the dentist-recommended length of time but good enough), and shoves his laptop into his backpack, praying it has enough battery left to power through the lecture.

The hall isn't too far away; he can get there in twenty minutes by bike, sixteen if he ignores traffic laws (which of course he won't do because he's a law-abiding citizen).

He gets there in fifteen minutes.

He's still late, but luckily it's one of the general ed selections so the lecture hall is packed to the brim with half-asleep teenagers and no one notices one more creeping in through the doors in the back. Except the people already crammed into the back. They don't look too pleased (he gets what he thinks is a death threat when he accidentally elbows someone while digging his laptop out of his backpack).

"Did I miss anything?" he whispers to his neighbor.

"Nah, nothing much if you took AP Bio. Though you did miss him struggling to spell 'professor.' Got it right in the end, but you could see him wondering if it was one or two fs." The kid cracks a grin, and Newt stifles a laugh.

They become best friends after that, and Newt briefly reconsiders his decision not to request a dorm transfer (but only for about the same amount of time he spent brushing his teeth that morning).


	2. Dumplings, Two Shots of Espresso

Newt comes home ("home" being a relative term here) to find a thick line of duct tape running down the center of the room.

"I even left you your 'Polish Corridor,'" says a voice an inch away from being smug.

Hermann. Fucking. Gottlieb. What a complete and utter bastard.

"I'm going out," Newt says, chucking his backpack onto his unmade bed. He doesn't bother stepping into the room lest he give Hermann fucking Gottlieb the satisfaction of seeing him use the damn "Polish Corridor." "I'll be back around nine. Try not to trash the room."

"At last, some peace and quiet."

"Fuck you too, man."

He finds Tendo (of the "professor" remark fame) in the lounge on the first floor of the dorm building flirting with the cute blonde from their Biochemistry class (that _traitor_).

"Come on," Newt says as he grabs his new friend's arm and rolls his eyes, carefully turning his face so the blonde can't see his expression. "I'm starving. You said you were going to show me the most mind-blowing dumpling house in the entire downtown area."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I? Well, call me sometime. I'd love to get to know you better." The last two sentences (with the added bonus of a cheeky wink) are directed at the blonde, who graces him with a divine smile and slips a folded piece of paper into Tendo's pocket.

"She totally digs me," Tendo says excitedly as they pass the football field on the way downtown. "I even got her phone number."

"Could be fake," Newt replies as nonchalantly as he can. Nope. Not jealous. At all.

"You're so jealous right now. Don't try to lie to me. I can see it in your eyes."

"Shut up. How far away is this dumpling place anyway?"

"Half an hour? I haven't walked there before. Took me ten minutes by bike last time though."

"Remind me again why we didn't go by bike."

Tendo sighs. "I told you, someone slashed my tires. Third time it's happened, and we just moved in two weeks ago. Dunno what kind of grudge the people here have against me, but I decided it wasn't worth it to keep replacing them."

Newt wrinkles his nose. "Wait, does that mean – ?"

"Yeah, I gotta wake up at seven to get to class on time."

"Crap, that sucks."

"Yeah." They stop at an intersection, and Newt impatiently pushes the crosswalk button several times. A car screeches around the corner, windows all rolled completely down and spilling rap everywhere. The light changes to green, but as soon as Newt takes one step onto the road a second car, almost identical to the first, tears by, horn honking in one continuous, prolonged shriek.

"Shit!" He jumps back onto the sidewalk and takes a moment to collect himself. "Did you see that? What the hell was that? Your dumpling place had better be worth it."

"I'd sell an organ on the black market to eat there," Tendo says, expression comically serious as he pulls Newt along after him. "Speaking as a guy who's spent half his life eating authentic homemade Chinese food, this place is as legit as it gets."

"Ok, but I mean it depends on which organ you'd be willing to sell, right? Is it 'I'd sell a kidney' good or – "

"Oh God, please don't bring your biology fetish into this."

"You brought organ selling up first."

"Can we not do this right before eating?"

"Well if you think about it, when you eat meat you're really eating – "

"Stop."

* * *

The dumpling place, Newt decides, is worth at least a kidney, a liter of blood, and a sizeable chunk of his liver.

* * *

He gets back to the dorms at 11:35 (technically thirty-five minutes past the start of quiet hour) after a detailed tour of what feels like _every_ shop in the downtown area. Tendo had recommended a small coffee shop by the movie theater (the somewhat larger one that was still about five times smaller than the one in Newt's hometown), and now his head is buzzing with the caffeine of two shots of straight espresso, no cream, no milk, no sugar, nothing but pure bitter bliss.

It's a wonder he's able to unlock the door at all. His hands shake so badly he can't even fit the damn credit card-sized piece of plastic into the slot above the handle, and he's pretty sure Hermann thought someone was trying to break in because when he does finally get the door open Hermann's holding his metal compass like a dagger and _there isn't even a pencil in the other end what were you planning on doing with that thing_?

"You're back late," Hermann says, shoving the compass back into his pencil bag.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" Newt says, a bit annoyed but in a good enough humor that he takes the time to navigate the Polish Corridor (which in retrospect was a totally stupid and inaccurate name for that thing; he's calling it the DMZ from now on) to avoid starting a fistfight with his roommate.

Hermann makes a cross noise in the back of his throat. "Tell me you aren't going to do this every night."

Newt shrugs and plunks himself down in the chair in front of his desk. He swivels around to face Hermann (all of the rooms come equipped with swivel chairs and Newt's been having tons of Hermann-condemned fun) and says, "Who knows? I've got the feeling I'm gearing up to have a pretty wild social life. Unlike, you know…" He lets the sentence trail off with a semi-condescending smile and slides over to his bed to retrieve the papers he's supposed to read.

He can feel Hermann glaring at his back. There's no way he didn't get the implication, and Newt feels a twinge of guilt. Maybe he went a little too far with that gibe because when he thinks about it, maybe some people aren't as accommodating of the old-man sweaters or the cane that Hermann really seems far too young to be using or the limp or the way he hunches over his work like he doesn't want the world to judge it. Neither of them says anything about it, which is hardly surprising.

About ten minutes into his reading (which truthfully could hardly be called "reading" at all because his eyes are just going over the first paragraph over and over again) he really, really needs to move around, so his fingers find a ballpoint pen on the desk and he twirls it, but he's bad at that and keeps dropping it all over the place so he starts tapping his feet instead, but that's making a noise and he can feel the glare at his back intensifying so he starts spinning in his chair instead, but that's making him dizzy so –

"Would you _stop moving around_?"

"But Hermann," he whines, "this is so fucking _boring_. Ten pages on _one_ protein in the extracellular matrix? Why can't we have homework like piecing together road kill to identify the species of animal or grafting ears onto mice or anything fun like that?"

"Because it's a biological hazard," Hermann says through gritted teeth. He caps his highlighter, sets it down on his open textbook (possibly math? Newt can't see it too well from where he's sitting), and wheels himself painfully to the DMZ so he can look Newt straight in the eye.

"How much coffee did you have?"

"Whoa, what's that got to do with anything?"

"How much coffee did you have?"

He doesn't say anything.

"_How much coffee did you have_?"

"Fine! God, who are you, my mom? I had two shots of espresso, ok? Two fucking shots. That's it. And don't you dare lecture me about my health or how it's ruining your beauty sleep," he adds, seeing the look on Hermann's face.

Hermann huffs and rubs the bridge of his nose wearily.

"I'm turning off the light. Use the lamp." He picks up his cane and limps over to the light switch on the wall by the door. The room plunges into darkness, and Newt hears the door of Hermann's wardrobe (which is pushed so close to the door it's probably a fire hazard) open and the rustling sounds of Hermann slowly changing.

Newt flicks on the lamp. A faded yellow glow spreads out across his desk, illuminating the papers strewn everywhere. Hermann climbs into bed and settles facing the wall, the lamp casting a soft glow on his blankets.

"Good night," Newt finally says when he can't take the silence anymore. His laptop is so tantalizingly close, but he knows if he opens it the papers will never be read. Hermann doesn't respond, only shifts so he's a little closer to the wall and a little farther from Newt.

It's going to be a long night.


	3. Mathematical Haven, Thanksgiving Chicken

Here are the things Hermann Gottlieb doesn't want to wake up to: the sound of his alarm clock like a bomb ticking down, the smell of preservatives in jars clumsily stashed into a closet, snores reverberating throughout the room, the pain and stiffness in his knee that never fade to anything less than a dull throbbing ache.

At exactly 7:15 each morning, Hermann Gottlieb wakes up to: the sound of his alarm clock like a bomb ticking down, the smell of preservatives in jars clumsily stashed into a closet, snores reverberating throughout the room, the pain and stiffness in his knee that never fade to anything less than a dull throbbing ache.

He lies on his back for a few minutes in a position that doesn't cause him any more pain than necessary. The beeping continues in the background (it's never once woken Newt up, not that he'd give a damn about it anyway), and he reluctantly surrenders and reaches over to hit the snooze button.

7:19 and he feels like something a dog threw up. 7:33 and he thinks he's probably presentable. 7:35 and he really doesn't feel like he has the energy to deal with the smell of preservatives and the sound of snores and the pain that never leaves him (but he's too stubborn to admit defeat).

8:15 sharp and he's hunched over his notes, scrawled in black ink, sitting in the front row so he doesn't have to deal with _people_. Doesn't have to deal with cocky bastards like Newton fucking Geiszler. Doesn't have to deal with anything but numbers and symbols and the complexity of the universe laid bare in front of him. Doesn't have to deal with anything but two hours of a haven transcribed and preserved in memory as crisply as it is on paper.

"Ah, Hermann, would you mind staying behind a bit?" his professor asks him after the lecture ends as everyone else rushes for the nearest exit. Hermann nods.

"This was quite remarkable," his professor continues, settling down in the seat next to his. He pulls out a printout of one of Hermann's assignments – the most recent one in fact. It takes Hermann one glance to understand.

"I thought the solution implied by the book was rather… _crude_," he offers as an explanation. His professor practically beams at him.

"Yes! You certainly weren't the only one to find an alternative proof, but yours was by far the most elegant. What are you considering majoring in?"

"Physics and engineering," Hermann answers, foreseeing the look of disappointment that briefly crosses his professor's face.

"Very good choices and ones fully within your grasp. Your talent in mathematics will get you far."

"Thank you. Numbers have always interested me."

"I wish you the best of luck in all your academic pursuits. If you ever need anything – a recommendation, a letter, anything – you can always ask me." He holds out a hand and Hermann shakes it, offering a lopsided smile at one of the few people who _believes_ in him, who sees past the limp and the cane and the hunch over his papers.

"Thank you," he says again, and he feels like maybe not even Newton fucking Geiszler can ruin today, like maybe not even the alarm clock and the preservatives and the snores and the goddamn knee can ruin today.

And when he gets up from the chair maybe his knee still bothers him and maybe he still struggles a bit to balance his backpack on his shoulders, but today's maybes have a hope and a tinge of mathematics to them.

* * *

Two and a half weeks later, Hermann comes home (to the extent that he can call it "home") to this: an explosion of clothes, a tidal wave of papers and books that threatens to spill out into the hallway. He hesitates outside the doorway before nudging the door fully open with his cane and peering inside.

"What happened here?" he asks, half-convinced some sort of satanic ritual gone wrong had just concluded. Newt straightens up from where he was crouching knee-deep in piles of his belongings and defensively shoves his stuff further from the demarcation tape between their sides of the room.

"If you haven't noticed, Thanksgiving's in two days and I'm going home for the weekend, which means I've got to pack all my stuff up today if I'm planning on leaving tomorrow afternoon. Unless you'd rather have me pack during the night?"

Hermann presses his lips together and shuffles into the cleanliness of his side of the room, taking care to very conspicuously push one of Newt's shirts onto the proper side of the tape.

"You'd get done a lot faster if you had organized everything beforehand."

"Oh yes," Newt says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "silly me. I should've realized. I don't even know what I'll do without your daily words of wisdom." He throws a pair of pants into the open suitcase on the ground. "Also I lost my phone somewhere in here, if you'd be so kind as to give it a call."

"I don't have your number."

"Well then," Newt says, turning to inspect his beloved jars all lined up on his desk, "can I borrow your phone?"

"What?"

"Can I borrow your phone, _please_?" Newt picks up a jar and holds it up to inspect it. The light from the window catches whatever thing is suspended inside and gives it an unearthly glow. Hermann's stomach turns at the sight.

"Not until you've washed your hands."

"Come on," he says, setting the jar back down, "they're all capped. And besides, it's mostly harmless anyway."

"_Mostly_ harmless?"

"Ninety-nine percent harmless," Newt assures with a straight face.

"Go wash your hands."

"Actually, forget it. I'll probably find it soon anyway. Why do you always have to go and make everything so difficult?"

"On what planet is it difficult to wash your hands?" Hermann asks, exasperated.

"Uh, every single other planet in our solar system."

"Which we don't live on."

"Congratulations, Hermann Gottlieb, you've just won the award for the most unhelpful roommate in the history of ever."

But Hermann just buries himself in his notebook and counts down the hours until he's free (however temporary that freedom will be).

* * *

It's weird. It feels _wrong_ somehow (not that Newt will _ever_ find out) to come home to a room that's clean on both sides of the border, that doesn't have music or a movie or just some sort of noise playing in the background, but Hermann tells himself to shut up and enjoy how Newt-free his life will be for the next few days.

He goes through all of his daily motions, and there's no one making snide remarks or trying to see what will piss him off. He goes to sleep at 11:30, and for the first time in what seems like years the room is pitch-black. He wakes up on Thanksgiving Day and it's not 7:15 in the morning, he doesn't hear his alarm clock, he smells preservatives (that odor isn't going away anytime soon) and his knee throbs, but it's blissfully silent and when he stares at the ceiling he doesn't feel like something a dog threw up.

Two days without classes, without work. He takes the bus downtown to escape the silence of the dorm. There are turkeys everywhere. They stare at him, surreal, from all the windows until he swears he's been transported into an episode of the Twilight Zone. He picks a random movie and watches it because that's what people do for fun, right? He buys himself ice cream (even though it's getting chilly) and doesn't feel guilty because dammit, he deserves to treat himself once in a while. And he goes to the used bookstore he heard about and hunkers down in a corner with a pile of books, trying to decide which ones to buy before giving up and buying them all. He eats alone at a faux French café and isn't lonely at all because he always used to eat by himself, didn't he?

On the ride home he sits by the bus window and tries to read _The Merchant of Venice_, but the road's a bit bumpy and the words swimming in front of his eyes give him a headache. A woman with a live chicken in a wire cage takes the seat across the aisle from his. He pretends to look out the window whilst staring at the reflection of the chicken the entire ride. The chicken gives him the evil eye.

At 6:30 he sits down in the cafeteria to a meal that is nowhere near as good as his mother's cooking but tries not to think of his mother or home because that path leads only to bad things. Bad memories. He doesn't need bad things and bad memories. Not now. Not today. Not on the first Newt-free day he's had since the first day they met.

His phone rings at 8:34 (in the boring default ringtone because he never bothered to learn how to change it), startling him out of sixteenth century Italy.

"What is it?" he growls, picking it up instinctively without looking up from his book. He immediately regrets it. What if it's his _father_? Or worse, one of his professors?

"Sorry, I – "

"Geez, chill, Hermann." Oh, never mind then.

"Did you call me just to annoy me?" he asks, turning the page. "How did you get my number anyway?"

"I called to say 'happy Thanksgiving' 'cause you know, it's common decency. Also to see if you've been heartbroken at my absence, but you've obviously been having a blast by yourself so I don't even know why I bothered."

"Don't ever call me again."

"'Happy Thanksgiving' would've done just – "

He hangs up.

* * *

Much to his annoyance, the niggling feeling of something out of place, as if he's forgotten a decimal point in a calculation, refuses to fade away entirely. He finishes _The Merchant of Venice_ and understands Shylock in his entirety.

* * *

He hears Newt long before he actually sees him (it's becoming a noticeable pattern). The disturbing clicking and groaning of the repaired elevator come first (he still has no clue why someone had thought it'd be a good idea to put him on the top floor of a building without a working elevator, but after he'd met Newt it'd been too late to ask for a transfer so he'd gritted his teeth and climbing the hell of five flights of stairs for a full month). Then the muted roll of wheels on carpet and the soft clink of glass against glass, the slosh of foul smelling liquid in jars not quite full.

"I'm back!" Newt says in the doorway, grinning as if he's some sort of rock star before an adoring crowd. "Did you miss me? Good to see you haven't self-destructed. Yet."

"Must you always be this _loud_?"

"Aww, Hermann, I missed you too. And so did Sammy."

"Sammy?" Hermann asks, swiveling his chair around and peering over the tops of his reading glasses. "Who in God's name is Sammy?"

"This little guy," Newt says, setting a duffle bag down gently on the ground. He unzips it and the odor invading the room intensifies. To Hermann's horror, Newt takes out what appears to be a small, hairless dog trapped in yellowing liquid.

"The demarcation line – " he starts as Newt's hands stray too close to the imaginary vertical extension of the tape.

"I introduced him two weeks ago. Look, he's upset you don't remember him. Did Hermann hurt your feelings, Sammy? He's always grumpy like that, don't pay him any attention."

That's it. In Hermann's book, Newt has officially lost it. He's talking to a pickled dog fetus, for crying out loud.

"Get that thing away from me."

"Sammy's not a _thing_," Newt says, wrapping his arms around the jar protectively.

"And what do you mean, you introduced it two weeks ago? Are you aware it's dead?"

"What I meant was I introduced you two weeks ago at three in the morning when you may or may not have been asleep. You probably were. In which case you've offended him even more."

"You are insane."

"Better that than boring," Newt shrugs, opening his closet and refilling it with all of his lab paraphernalia. "Seriously, how did you not bore yourself into a mummy while I was gone?"

"I have plenty of things to do. Essays to write. Papers to read. Equations to solve. Your absence greatly speed up the processes," Hermann says stiffly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Either way, I'm back, and I had one hell of a Thanksgiving. Can you believe what Uncle Gunter brought over to show me?"

"I don't particularly care."

Of course Newt tells the story in an endless stream of chatter anyway, as Hermann knew he would, and Hermann relegates it to background noise, as Newt knew he would. And Hermann hates it, but the niggling feeling of something out of place, as if he's forgotten a decimal point in a calculation, finally starts to loosen its hold on his mind.

* * *

At exactly 7:15 the next morning, Hermann Gottlieb wakes up to: the sound of his alarm clock like a bomb ticking down, the smell of preservatives in jars clumsily stashed into a closet, snores reverberating throughout the room, the pain and stiffness in his knee that never fade to anything less than a dull throbbing ache.

And it feels like the universe has been restored to some mysterious and precarious balance.


	4. The Fight, the Call, the Fort

Newt gets back early on Tuesdays and Fridays, so really, Hermann should've known that he would pile all his friends into their room and hold some sort of inane dance party. Hermann had just been expecting a bit of _restraint_ on Newt's part because it's two weeks before finals, for heaven's sake.

He first hears the music two floors down in the elevator. When the volume keeps increasing as the elevator comes to a stop he prepares himself for the worst, and when he sees the door to their room is ajar he _knows_ the worst has come.

"What are you doing?"

"Stress relief," Newt shouts over the ambient noise, arms spread wide and a smirk on his face as if he's won the lottery or the international biggest douchebag contest. Hermann takes a breath to calm himself down before marching into the room, shoving aside people in his path.

"Out," he says, pointing redundantly at the door. "Everyone on this side of the room, out."

"Oh, come on, stop being such a stick-in-the-mud," Newt has the audacity to say. "You've been working yourself too hard; take a break, will you?"

"_Out_." He's shaking from anger now, and several people close to him back away nervously. If someone doesn't take his cane away, he's going to use it as a weapon in about five seconds.

"No," Newt says resolutely, shooting out of his chair and crossing over the sacred border between their sides in three seconds. He shoves his face an inch from Hermann's and jabs a finger at his chest. "No. This isn't just _your_ room, you know. I've always been letting you have your way – "

"Letting me have my way? Which part of your 'specimen' fouling up the air in our room, you going to sleep at three in the morning and leaving the light on all night, you playing music so loudly everyone in the entire building can hear it – "

"You sleep like a goddamn rock and you fucking know it!"

" – which part of all that's supposed to be you letting me have my way?"

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, Hermann Gottlieb. Fuck you and your ugly-ass sweaters and your stupid cane and – "

Hermann hadn't even known he could punch someone that hard, but the next moment two guys are holding him back as an angry red splotch spreads across Newt's left cheek and all he can think is _you deserved it, you bastard_.

"Hey, is everything alright?" they hear the RA's voice come from down the hall. Hermann and Newt make eye contact for a second, and then Newt plasters on a smile.

"Yeah. Sorry, is the music getting too loud?" he asks, still staring at directly at Hermann. Hermann can feel the flush crawling across his face.

"Hate to be a party pooper, but you'll have to turn it down a bit, ok? Most people aren't back from class yet, but they're gonna be wanting to study soon so try to keep it down."

"Sure thing." The two guys let go of Hermann as Newt turns down the volume of his speakers. Hermann glares at his back, something becoming an all too familiar interaction between the two of them.

"Sorry guys, I guess that's it for today," Newt says, shrugging. Almost everyone looks about ready to leave anyway. "I mean, you're welcome to stay if you want – "

"On that side."

" – on this side. God, Hermann, do you always – "

"I wouldn't need to if you acted more like someone who wasn't constantly on some drug or – "

"It's called my personality, and you're the only person I've ever met who's taken offense with everything about it."

"Because you're everything I'm _not_."

"Yeah, maybe because I've got something called a heart. An actual human heart and not whatever math-fueled clusterfuck of robot gears you've got."

Hermann blinks. They've bickered near constantly since they met – save those sporadic days when they refuse to acknowledge each other's existence – but it's never been this… bitter? Caustic? Personal? He'd thought they'd gradually agreed on some unspoken rule that they would no longer stray into anything that actually _hurt_.

"W-well, either way it's two weeks before finals, so you really should be studying anyway."

"Is that all there is to you?" They're standing toe-to-toe at the line of demarcation, and for all that Hermann towers over him, Newt seems to puff up to twice his size. "Studying and reading and writing? What about _people_?"

"_People_," Hermann hisses, the last bit of willingness to deal with Newt dissolving away completely, "let you down. _People_ use you and throw you away. _People_ judge you. _People push you down three flights of stairs and laugh when you shatter your bones on the way down_."

There's no sound between them but their breaths, harsh and strained from shouting, and in that instant Hermann's thankful for whichever ex-partygoer had shut the door behind them when everyone had evacuated the room.

"I'm going to the library," he says abruptly, turning and hobbling over to his desk. Roughly, hands still shaky (from anger?), he gathers his books into a messy stack and throws it into a bag. He adjusts the strap of the bag as he heads out and lets the door slam closed, the image of fleeting guilt in Newt's expression burned in his mind.

He doesn't want his goddamn sympathy.

* * *

Neither of them sleeps that night. Newt finds out the hard way just how loudly Aleksis Kaidanovsky can snore (he owed Newt a favor, which he's cashing in on by escaping from the hellhole that is now the room he shares with Hermann fucking Gottlieb). That and the fact that the sheer amount of junk covering every inch of the floor means no matter which way he turns, he ends up with his nose next to a pile of dirty laundry. Not to mention (he _thinks_ Hermann wouldn't stoop that low, but honestly after today's fight anything could go) he'd stupidly left everything back in the room after Hermann had stormed out, save his lab notebooks and laptop.

From somewhere in the darkness above him, one of the mattress creaks as Aleksis turns and mutters something in his sleep, and _dear God is that an earthquake or just the vibrations of his uvula_? He wonders if it would be worth it to give sleeping up as a lost cause and start making edits to his _Animal Farm_ essay but remembers he'd left behind the power cord and the computer had thus died four hours ago.

He flips over on his back and laces his finger together over his stomach, musing that this must be how it feels to be in a coffin, expect being boxed in with wood instead of sweaty socks and t-shirts with dubious stains. He tries counting sheep but come on, that's about as boring as Puritan literature. Resigning himself to a sleepless night, he starts writing a paper in his head about the structural changes in the alpha oxygenase subunit of 2-nitrotoluene 2,3-dioxygenase, uncertain if it's one of those all-nighters when he'll feel like he's drunk ten cups of coffee or like a giant wad of cotton's been shoved into his head.

Hermann doesn't sleep because his leg hurts like Satan summoned an entire fucking army to waltz on it.

* * *

For a record-breaking week and a half, neither of them says a word to the other. Newt listens to his music on the highest volume setting his laptop is capable of until he thinks he's gone partially deaf and puts his lamp on the ground right next to the demarcation line. Hermann leaves the blinds open every morning and raises the temperature on the thermostat knowing full well that, as Newt's repeated ad infinitum in the past, t_hose reagents are highly temperature sensitive, damn you to hell_.

* * *

Hermann's phone rings. More accurately, it vibrates, the annoying clacking sound of it skittering across the wooden surface of the desk cutting through Newt's thoughts (the RA told him yesterday at least a dozen people had lodged complaints about his "excessive noise-making" and banned him from music until the end of finals week). The sound changes for a second (Hermann picking the phone up) before returning to its original form (Hermann putting it back down without answering? Curiouser and curiouser).

He starts to lose his temper after the fifth round of Hermann not answering the phone.

The sixth time whoever it is calls, Newt turns around, scissors in hand, ready to threaten to stab Hermann if he doesn't just take the damn call already.

"_What do you want_?" Evidently Hermann's at the end of his patience too because Newt's only ever heard him use that tone the day they had The Fight. He goes back to the open sheep kidney in front of him, dropping the scissors back on the tray and adding a few vessels to the meticulously drawn diagram next to it.

"Why are you calling me?"

Newt isn't sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that he doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty eavesdropping. But then again it's really the RA's fault because he should've known that Newt needs constant noise in the background the same way he needs oxygen.

"Of course I'm not."

He takes a peek over his shoulder because wow, Hermann never sounds this angry talking to anyone other than Newt. And here he had been thinking he was special. Hermann's hunched over even more than usual, the tenseness in his shoulders visible even under the lumpy sweater.

"I worked my hardest so I could get away," Hermann snaps, dropping his voice as if he knows Newt is secretly hanging onto every word (which he probably does know), "what makes you think I'd willingly go back?"

The kidney is all but forgotten as he absentmindedly doodles the human digestive system on a piece of scratch paper (he has the decency to at least act like he's not eavesdropping).

"Don't you dare play the guilt card." Newt recognizes the edge in Hermann's voice a second before Hermann loses it.

"DON'T YOU DARE! WHEN WERE YOU EVER THERE FOR ME?" He flinches. Even when Hermann was genuinely angry with him, even during The Fight, Hermann had never once raised his voice like this. He can hear daggers, swords, compasses held like knives. A wounded animal trapped in a corner.

"This conversation is over." Hermann throws the phone violently onto his bed and sinks into his chair, one hand pressed to his eyebrows as if he has a migraine. Newt doesn't say a word, only silently returns to his diagram.

When the phone vibrates again four minutes later, they both pretend not to hear it.

* * *

It's Friday, and Newt stands in the center of his side of the room. A room that will be absent Hermann for the next few hours, perfect for a surprise. He gathers up his blanket, drapes it over the side of his bed, and decides it'll do. Now to just move a few more things around.

* * *

Hermann breaks their silence with his customary "What is _that_?" that Newt had somehow begun to miss. Newt takes a second to privately revel in the knowledge that he outlasted Hermann in this contest before smiling brightly at his roommate.

"This is Fort Newt, a state-of-the-art research and study facility, complete with lamp, laptop, and lab notebooks. The three l's, as I like to call them. Well I mean I've got all my textbooks and notes down there too but it doesn't sound as catchy."

"You dragged your lamp under the bed?"

"It's there, isn't it? I mean, it wouldn't be much of a fort if I had to have a giant opening to let in light."

"You are a _child_."

"I'm in college, and I'm gonna have fun before I become a stuffy old adult."

"You have nothing to worry about then. For you to become an adult implies you could actually become more mature."

And like that they somehow settle back into their old routine of sniping at each other, as if The Fight had never happened, both of them knowing something has changed from then that won't ever disappear.

* * *

Hermann always tells Newt: that he's an inconsiderate asshole, that he's loud and obnoxious, how poor his musical taste is, that his personal specimen jars stink to high heaven and are probably illegal, to stop drinking coffee at one in the morning.

Hermann will never tell Newt: that he's one of the few people who knows what really happened to his goddamn leg, how grateful he is Newt didn't pry into the phone call, and how much easier it is to fall asleep when the blanket of the fort blocks out the light.


	5. Evangelion Spoilers, Dishwashing Triplet

Finals week begins, and it's every bit as brutal as all the rumors Newt has heard. Brutal perhaps not so much for himself, but in some classes it's clear at least half his classmates haven't gotten a night of decent sleep for days on end. He, on the other hand, has been getting a solid four hours of sleep each night and feels great during testing (and not so great in the afternoons, when he crashes).

It's five days of having to sit still, _completely quiet and_ _deprived of his music_. He survives those five days before the realization that the semester's officially over and it's now winter break (how did he even make it this far?) hits him like a snowball to the head. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have free time.

"Hey Tendo, you doing anything over break?" he asks, sprawled out on top of his bed with his phone next to his head on speakers. Hermann's already grumbling something about how phone calls are supposed to be between two people, not broadcast all over the room, and would he please just take a modicum of effort to hold the damn thing up to his ear. Newt ignores him because he's definitely earned this after all those days of being quiet.

"Yeah, I'm visiting my grandpa in SF. Chinatown. Feels like I haven't been there in ages. You?"

"Parents said they wanted to go on a trip to Germany for old times' sake, so I've got the house to myself. I'll probably try to get Uncle Gunter to come over sometime. Do you think I'd be able to fit a keyboard in the dorm? He told me he refitted the old one I had, and I've been missing her for months."

"Dude, doesn't your roommate hate you already?" Tendo laughs. Newt turns his head lazily to look at Hermann's back. He can imagine the eye rolling that must be going on.

"I think he'd say he 'despises' me. Or something with more syllables."

"Newton Geiszler, I'm sitting right here in this room," Hermann growls reproachfully.

"Yeah, I'm well aware of that," Newt says, raising his head ever so slightly. "It's kinda hard not to notice that sweater."

"Hey, hey, should I just hang up and leave you two to your old married couple routine?" Tendo asks as Hermann sputters out another insult in reply.

"Nah, man, it's nice to talk to you again. I haven't seen you in such a long time."

"You mean since the Biochem exam this morning?"

"Yeah. Where'd you go? I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out downtown. I heard they were screening one of the old Evangelion movies," he says, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

"Can't, sorry. Alison wants to go on one last date before we leave."

"Which Alison's this one again?"

"Oh come on. She's the only one I've seriously dated, ok?"

"Right, the one from Biochem. I thought we were bros. That's some serious betrayal right there. Ditching a bro for a romantic candle-lit dinner." He lets the disappointment run thick in his voice even though he's seen firsthand that Tendo would do pretty much anything for his girlfriend (including that one memorable incident with the octopus and the broken bookshelf).

"I mean, you can tag along too if you want to. It's already a double date anyway. Yancy and Naomi are coming too, since the restaurant's offering discounts for larger tables."

"A double date with your roommate and his girlfriend? Who'd want to be the fifth wheel _there_?"

"Your loss. I gotta go get ready now. See you after break."

"You're getting ready for dinner at three in the afternoon? Don't leave me alone with Hermann," Newt whines, provoking another round of indignant muttering from his roommate.

"We're watching a movie first."

"Oh, so you'll go watch something with _Alison_, but you won't go watch Evangelion with your best friend. I see how it is."

"Sorry pal. Rule number one of dating is that the girlfriend always gets priority. Have fun over break, but don't do anything stupid."

"_You_ don't do anything stupid," Newt retorts even though Tendo's already ended the call. He huffs and lies staring at the ceiling again.

"You sound like a clingy little child," Hermann remarks. Newt flips onto his side.

"Well, what would you do if your best friend abandoned you for a girl?"

"I have hobbies," Hermann says, spinning around in his chair to face Newt. He takes his reading glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, which already has two red marks from the nose pads.

"Like what? Solving obscure math problems?"

Hermann starts to reply, glasses perched again on his nose, but an idea worms itself into Newt's brain and he sits up without processing a single word.

"Let's go watch Evangelion together."

"What." Hermann says it in a perfectly deadpan tone, as if Newt had told him Sammy wanted a goodnight kiss (when hell freezes over; there's no way he's letting Hermann anywhere near his precious specimen).

"Evangelion. You know, the anime?"

"I'm not going to watch cartoons with you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you did _not_ just call Evangelion a cartoon. That's it; you're going. It's a classic, and you're gonna learn to appreciate it."

"I don't have time – "

"No one doesn't have time for Evangelion." He grabs his phone and starts looking up times. "The bus leaves in ten minutes, and the next showing's at 3:45. We can make it if you hurry. Look," he adds, seeing Hermann's bemusement, "I'll even pay for your ticket."

"Go watch it yourself."

"No," Newt says, rolling off the bed and stumbling over to Hermann's desk. "You just called Evangelion a _'cartoon_,' which means you seriously need to experience it first hand. Besides, we just finished finals, and you're allowed to take a break for once. It's not healthy to stay cooped up in a room for that long."

"Don't you need to start packing?" Hermann grumbles even as he reaches for his coat and cane. He has a sneaking suspicion that if he doesn't humor his roommate, he'll spend the rest of the year finding discs labeled "watch this," "no really you have to," "do it," "I'm not going to leave you alone" scattered throughout their room and in his belongings. Better to get it over with all at once.

Besides, Newt just offered to pay.

"Psh. Packing can wait until after Evangelion." Newt holds the door open and sweeps his arm toward it, eye shining with nerdy excitement.

"After you."

* * *

"I didn't understand any of it," Hermann complains when they step back outside into the chill air. "What was that? The series finale?"

"Technically, yeah. There was a huge controversy over the ending, so I guess Gainax decided, 'Screw that.'"

"Why on earth would you make someone watch the series finale first?"

"You obviously weren't going to agree to start watching it online, so I did what I had to do. By the way, what are you in the mood for?"

"Mood for what?" Hermann asks irritably, stopping as Newt squats down to greet a large, overly affectionate dog.

"Food, Hermann. Restaurant. Dinner. You're not honestly going to eat at the _cafeteria_ the day finals finally ended, are you?"

"I – "

"Oh! I know this really great dumpling house Tendo showed me. Yeah, I'm liking this idea. Come on; it's only about five blocks down."

"Newton – "

"Newt," he insists, dragging Hermann behind him as fast as his knee will allow.

"Would you _listen_ to me? I don't eat pork."

"No biggie," Newt says, shrugging and pushing through a particularly dense crowd in front of a bookstore. "They've got dumplings made of practically everything. Excuse me sir, sorry. Sorry. Coming through. Sorry about that."

"Couldn't we have just walked around them?" Hermann grouses, having accidentally bumped into way too many strangers for his liking.

"I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

"It's only 5:30."

"Whatever. We're almost there. See?" Hermann follows Newt's pointing finger to a small building crammed between a thrift shop and an ice cream chain. The front is painted a faded red with the simple words "Dumpling House" in chipped black paint. A large wooden panda lies mid-tumble on the ground. Newt pulls on Hermann's sleeve again, and they enter to the smell of fried dough and various meats.

"Table for two, please," Newt says to the elderly Asian woman at the front counter. She beams at him as if he were a favorite grandson of hers.

"Newt! It's good to see you again," she says with a lilting Chinese accent, steering them to a table by the window. "You are having the usual?"

"Actually, could we get beef for the potstickers? Hermann, do you eat seafood?"

"Depends on what kind," Hermann replies, looking around him curiously. A giant scroll with flowing calligraphy covers one wall while a small shrine sits on top of a shelf in the far corner. The patrons are a mixed crowd, anywhere from college students to businessmen and elderly couples. There are a few strings of colored lights twinkle around the window frame next to him.

"Shrimp."

"No."

Newt sighs. "We'll have chicken dumplings instead of shrimp."

"With fried tofu?" she asks, scribbling their order down on a pad of paper.

"Don't tell me you don't eat tofu either."

"Of course I eat tofu," Hermann snaps in return.

"Yeah, with the tofu. _Xiexie_," Newt says, the Chinese slipping garbled off his tongue. She gives him a smile that plainly reads, "you tried," and pats his shoulder before disappearing somewhere in the crowd.

"So, do you come here often?" Hermann asks awkwardly to break the silence between them as they wait for the food to come. Newt bursts out in laughter, trying in vain to smother his giggles in his sleeves while a distinctly flushed and unamused Hermann glares at him.

"What?" Hermann says, annoyed. "You seem to know her really well."

"Granny Wei? Yeah, Tendo loves this place, so we come here every few weeks. It's just – " He starts cracking up again.

"_What_?"

"You know that's a pick-up line right?"

"What?" Hermann repeats for the third time, annoyance and confusion vying for a spot on his face.

"It's that one stereotype where you go to a bar, sit down next to someone hot, and say, 'Come here often?' as a really shitty icebreaker. God, Hermann, you really need to go out more."

"I don't like wasting time, unlike you."

Newt rolls his eyes. "Just relax, okay? Life isn't just about numbers and math and studying super hard for – for whatever. Tests and stuff? You don't always have to, I don't know, be so _serious_ to prove to everyone and yourself that you don't 'waste time.' It's not a bad thing to have fun and spend time doing nothing every once in a while."

"I _do _'have fun,' ok?" Hermann says, peeved. "I don't know where you keep getting the idea that you need to be my mother and force me to be happy the way you're happy. Or the way you _think_ I should be happy."

"It's just – "

"This conversation is over." Hermann turns from Newt and cranes forward, as if searching for someone in the crowd of the restaurant.

"What, are you going to walk off and ditch me now?"

"No, you idiot," Hermann responds, trying to catch the attention of a wandering server. "I'm asking for a fork."

"Uh, no you aren't. I am _not_ going to let you suffer the disgrace that is asking for a _fork_ at a Chinese restaurant. Look, it's not that hard to learn how to use chopsticks. Tendo showed me. Here; break them apart."

Hermann scowls and mutters under his breath but follows Newt's instructions, gingerly snapping the connection between the two chopsticks.

"Put one of them under your thumb and between your third and fourth fingers. Then hold the other one like a pencil. See? Isn't it easy? You just move the one on top." Newt demonstrates, cheerfully opening and closing them around imaginary food. When Hermann tries to imitate him, the bottom one slides out of his grasp and clatters onto his plate.

"I don't understand why I should make this any more difficult than it needs to be," Hermann barks, throwing the chopstick in his hand onto the plate to join its twin.

"It's, like, a cultural appreciation thing. You'll get it after a few tries. It didn't even take me too long to learn. You can stab your food if you have to. Trust me; it's for the best in the long run."

Newt offers Hermann a reassuring smile that is summarily rejected as the aforementioned wandering server, a teenager with a shaved head and immaculate white apron, walks up to their table. Hermann frowns. Except that wandering server is still in the background, chatting to a couple sitting by the shrine.

"Your fried tofu," he says with a light accent, setting down a plate of crispy golden blocks on the table.

"Thanks," Newt says, peering at him closely. "Sorry, I keep getting you mixed up. Are you Jin?"

"Hu. Jin's on dishwashing duty," Hu snickers. "On the Calculus test he got the only 'F' between us, so Granny told him if he doesn't want to do dishes all winter break next time, he should concentrate more on grades and less on girls. He's complaining it's washing away his soul, but we all know he just can't stand still. I have to go now, but remember we have a basketball game tomorrow at ten if you want to come."

"They're the 'Wei Tang triplets,'" Next explains as Hu runs back off to the kitchens. He grabs a piece of tofu with practiced ease. "Hu, Jin, and… Cheung, I think? Their grandma owns this place, so they get roped into helping around sometimes. You have to try this; it's soybean heaven."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Hermann admonishes, struggling with the chopsticks for a few seconds before taking Newt's advice and angrily impaling a chunk of tofu.

"So is it good?"'

"It's not bad."

"Really? That's it? If this was a black market place, I'd be willing to sell a kidney, a liter of blood, and a sizeable chunk of liver just to eat here. Kids these days can't even appreciate good food anymore."

"We're the same age," Hermann says, stabbing a dumpling from the plate Hu (or is it Cheung this time?) sets down in front of him.

"Please, you act and dress like my grandpa," Newt says, leaning over and nabbing a dumpling. He chews thoughtfully. "I think the shrimp ones are better. What do you think?"

"It's good."

Newt has to try his hardest not to smack Hermann upside the head.

* * *

Newt leaves for home the next morning with the hurried rush of a drowning man, frantically shoving a few last articles of clothing into his suitcase and praying the lid will still close. The alarm on his phone rings to tell him he has exactly two hours before his flight leaves without him, a fact he already knows perfectly well because he's been checking the clock every two minutes in the hopes that time, for some reason or another, has stopped ticking by so damn quickly.

He doesn't appreciate it when Hermann asks him, snidely, if he has time for Evangelion.

* * *

Hermann picks up on the second ring. The second ring of the eighth time Newt calls him, to be exact.

"Why're you call– "

"Common decency," Newt interrupts, grinning even though Hermann can't see it. "Merry Christmas, Hermann."

"I don't celebrate Christmas," comes the terse reply.

"Uh, happy early Kwanzaa?"

"Stop calling me."

"Stop picking up," Newt laughs.

Hermann hangs up.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for taking so long to update! This chapter's the longest so far, so I hope that made up for it C^: School started this week, and I keep getting plot bunnies for fics about the other side characters I love too OTL. I'm trying to keep to an update schedule of once every week or week and a half, but I'll see how it goes. Thanks everyone who's read and liked this fic this far!  
_


	6. Suitcase Stonehenge, Marker Mustache

The phone rings at – when else? – 4:30 in the morning. Hermann buries his face in his pillow and groans, waiting for it to fall silent. It rings again; he tumbles out of bed and gropes for his chair in the darkness. Yawning, he turns his lamp on and hunts for his cell phone under a pile of unread novels. Two words glow on its screen when he finds it.

Newton Geiszler.

Of course it's Newt. It's always Newt. He would change the contact name to "Asshole" if he were half as immature as Newt, but he isn't, so he takes the call from "Newton Geiszler" with the resignation of the condemned.

"It's 4:30 in the goddamn morning. What on earth could you possibly want?"

"Um, hey Hermann. I booked a red eye flight 'cause it was cheaper and all, but then I didn't really have a lot of time to pack yesterday night so, uh, I might've left my room key at home."

Hermann comes within an inch of chucking the phone at the wall and crawling back into bed.

"Please," Newt begs, evidently taking his silence as a refusal. "It's really cold outside. Like 'thick layer of frost covering everything' cold. Don't make me resort to drinking my own piss like Bear Grylls or something. That's really nasty."

"Where are you?"

"Outside the dorm," Newt says, sounding relieved. "Put a coat on. Two coats. Maybe three if it's possible."

"Give me a few minutes." Hermann sets the phone down and crosses carefully to his (preservative and specimen-free) wardrobe. Shifting through the clothes hanging in a neatly organized row, he takes out his parka (which Newt says makes him look "like a green man-shaped marshmallow") and double-checks that the key is in his pocket because, unlike a certain someone, he's actually responsible. He lets the door close as quietly as he can, gets in the elevator, and contemplates on the way down what exactly he'd done in all his life to deserve this.

When he pushes open the main entrance, he's greeted by a gust of frigid wind and Newt curled up in fetal position in the middle of a ring of luggage.

"Hermann!" Newt struggles to his feet and rushes toward Hermann, arms spread wide. Hermann recoils and holds his hands in front of him.

"No. No hugging."

"I'm so glad to see you," Newt sniffles, slipping into the heated lobby and shivering the entire time. "I had to take two trips to get all my stuff here from the taxi, and then I spent twenty minutes digging through _everything_ to try and find the key before calling you, and I didn't realize it was this cold in the morning so I only had this jacket on and it's _freezing_."

"Why didn't you just call the housing service or campus security?" Hermann asks, wishing he were back asleep already.

"Well, I mean, I would've had to wake you up anyway, so it made more sense to call you?" Classic Newt logic.

Hermann grunts. "Go get your bags inside."

Newt nods and turns a puppy-eyed look at him. "Can you help me?"

"How did you end up bringing so much more back than you brought home?" Hermann asks crossly, staring at the Stonehenge of bags and suitcases and trying to count just how many there are. Too many. He's not the prospective Biology major here, but he's fairly certain inanimate objects don't usually reproduce like rabbits.

"I brought some stuff I thought would be useful," Newt explains, standing by the door expectantly. Hermann heaves a long-suffering sigh and walks over to join him.

However unpleasant it had been to open the door the first time, it's about fifty times worse to actually step outside. He thinks he feels the frostbite already creeping in, and his grip on his cane tightens.

"Here, just – " Newt makes some vague gestures at the piles on the ground. He stoops down to pick up a guitar case and throws the strap across Hermann's shoulder. Staggering a bit under the unexpected weight, Hermann reaches out to grab the small bag Newt holds out toward him. Newt balances a couple of the other boxes to the top of his large suitcase, drapes the strap of another bag around his neck, and gathers up everything else with his other hand.

"Ready?"

Newt nods, and Hermann fishes the key out of his pocket. He swipes it and holds the door open as Newt manhandles his belongings into the lobby before escaping back into the building himself. There have been few times, he muses, that he's been more thankful for modern technology.

"What precisely did you bring? Not more of your foul-smelling experiments, I hope."

Newt gets that mock-offended look he uses whenever Hermann insults his science. "They only smell bad to your uncultured nose, ok? And for your information, I brought a mini-fridge to store my stuff in, so you can keep the thermostat at whatever temperature you want now."

"Your nose is only 'cultured' because you've ruined your sense of smell already," Hermann shoots back. "And the guitar?" he asks as he presses the elevator button and the doors open.

"That's the best part," Newt says, eyes lighting up. They step into the elevator and he sinks to the ground, setting the things in his hands to the side so he can wrap his arms around himself. "I called some friends over break, and we're starting a band! It'll be great!"

"You're starting a band."

"Yeah! And since Tendo's pretty tight with Granny Wei, she said we can play at the Dumpling House as long as we play 'good music.' Get ready to be roommates with a _rock star_ now."

Hermann thinks there are only about a thousand and one ways this could all go horribly, horribly wrong.

"And who's doing this?"

"Let's see. Uh, I'm lead guitar, Yancy's backup guitar, Tendo's bass, Aleksis is drums, and Sasha's keyboard," he lists, ticking each person off on his fingers. "I figured five's a good number. And Sasha's got a killer voice, if you've never heard her sing before."

"Do any of you actually know how to play an instrument?" Hermann asks.

"I can play just about any instrument you give me," Newt says, genuinely offended this time. "Hello? I grew up with two musicians and a musical engineer. I _breathe_ music. Good luck trying to find something I _don't_ play."

"Wonderful," Hermann says dryly as the doors open again and Newt scoops up his belongings. They exit, lowering their voices in the predawn silence. "But, in case you haven't realized, you're only one fifth of the band." He unlocks their room and holds the door open again for Newt to shove through.

"Those are only details," Newt says, waving a hand nonchalantly once he dumps everything onto his bed. He takes in a deep breath, as if acclimatizing himself to the room again. "I can teach them. Like I said, I play pretty much every instrument known to man."

Yep. Only about a thousand and one ways this could all go horribly, _horribly_ wrong.

* * *

Two weeks later, Hermann returns from brushing his teeth in the bathroom down the hall to find the members of Newt's so-called "band" assembled conspiratorially outside their room. A large sack lies by their feet, ignored in the heat of a hushed argument. He feels a headache coming. It's much too early to be dealing with this.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, hobbling over and suddenly very grateful he changes his clothes before using the bathroom. They all turn at the same time (somewhat creepily, he thinks), relief breaking out on each face in a slightly different manner.

"You are Hermann Gottlieb, no? Newt's roommate?" the only female of the group (he's guessing she's Sasha) asks in a thick Russian accent.

"Yes. I am, unfortunately, his roommate. You haven't answered my question. Why are you all here?" His patience is running dangerously thin without his morning cup of tea.

"Today, it is Newt's birthday," Sasha says, speaking for the rest of the group (who all find a multitude of reasons not to make eye contact with an increasingly irate Hermann). "We have a surprise for him. But we cannot open the door, so we ask you now to please let us in."

"What does this… _surprise_ entail?" he asks, picturing the utter ruination of their room.

"Most of it is balloons. Aleksis has made a cake and we have a sign, which we have written 'Happy Birthday Newt' on. We also have markers in order to give him a mustache and words on his face. Kind words only," she adds hastily, misinterpreting Hermann's expression.

"Just be quiet about it, and stay on his side of the room," he says, giving up. The four of them part to let Hermann get to the door, and Aleksis carefully picks up the sack with one giant hand.

"Of course we will be very quiet," Sasha whispers, a gleam in her eyes. She smirks and winks. "We would not want to wake him before he has a mustache and kind words on his face. It would be a pity."

He opens the door for them, and they tiptoe in, carefully keeping (he notes with some measure of relief) to the left of the duct tape. They immediately get to work, pulling brightly colored balloons (which have musical notes – and some other things Hermann doesn't really want to think too hard about – drawn on them) out of the sack. Aleksis produces a covered platter seemingly out of nowhere. The smell of sugar is just strong enough to mask the ambient odor of the room.

Hermann leaves as they (led by a snickering Sasha) converge around Newt's bed with four uncapped black permanent markers, and he thanks whatever higher being may be up there that he doesn't have friends like _that_.

* * *

He would never admit it out loud, but the scene that greets him when he comes home from class is almost comical. It's a Tuesday so Newt's already back, and when he turns as Hermann enters the room there are purple splotches decorating his cheeks and forehead and a dark smudge across his upper lip. Hermann can only imagine what he looked like before trying to scrub the marker off his face.

"Did you _really_ let them in?" Newt asks, eyebrows arched in disbelief. Hermann shrugs.

"They asked politely."

"Dude, I can't believe you let them draw on me," Newt says, scooting his chair over to the demarcation line. "I can't believe you let them to _anything_ at all. I thought you were a stick-in-the-mud."

Hermann shrugs again. "It doesn't particularly concern me what they do with you."

"Ok. When you put it _that_ way, you're just kind of a jerk, aren't you?" He drums his fingers restively against the armrest. "Hey, you want a slice of cake? I can't finish it all. You wouldn't believe it, but Aleksis can bake a mean cake."

Hermann ducks under a clump of balloons (no, he is most definitely _not_ going to look at the _things_ drawn on them) and uses his cane to poke them deliberately until they're on the correct side of the imaginary upward extension of the Line.

"I can't imagine why anyone would _want_ to feed you more sugar than what you already regularly consume."

"Hey, it's my birthday. I can indulge myself with all the sugar I want."

Hermann rolls his eyes and takes a closer look at the giant, multicolor banner now hanging on the wall above Newt's bed. It reads "HappY 17Th BirTHDAy NEwT" in obnoxious, painted letters, as if the creators hadn't been able to agree whether or not to use all capital lettering. Something that looks like a poorly drawn lizard with glasses (is that supposed to be a newt? Oh God, that is officially the worst visual pun Hermann has ever seen) dominates the corner. He supposes the triangle on its head is a party hat.

"You're only seventeen?" Hermann asks, pointing at the banner.

"Yeah," Newt says, swiveling around in his chair with his legs stuck out in front of him. "Contrary to what _you_ might except, I've got some pretty impressive brains in here." He taps his forehead with a certain amount of smugness.

"Oh, shut up. I'm seventeen too."

"Is that a hint of jealousy I'm detecting?" Newt asks gleefully, leaning closer to Hermann and bringing the chair dangerously close to tipping point. He frowns. "When _is_ your birthday anyway?"

"That's not important," Hermann says, taking his Astrophysics textbook out of a drawer. He opens it to page 394 and tries to ignore the fact that Newt has clearly crossed the sacred duct tape (because fine, it's Newt's birthday today, he'll be lenient).

"Come on, don't be like that," Newt says. He pokes Hermann's shoulder.

"It's not important," Hermann repeats, twitching at the intrusion into his personal space.

"Tell me, Hermann," Newt badgers. "Tell me the secret to your existence that lies in those two little numbers. You like numbers, right? Come on, just tell me. Or, I mean, I could hack into the school system and read through all your files. But that's a douchebag move. And also probably highly illegal. So just tell me. _Please_. It's not that hard."

"June ninth," Hermann sighs, trying to dodge Newt's poking finger.

"Oh. Isn't that, like, during finals week? That sucks, man."

"As I said before, it's not important."

"Aww, don't say that. I'll get Aleksis to bake you your own cake too."

"I don't _like_ cake."

Newt stares at him with his mouth open.

"You don't like cake? Is there anything in this world you _do_ like? What do you live for? Where is the meaning in your life?"

"I won't even deign to answer those questions," Hermann says, highlighting a line in the book with a bit more force than he'd intended. Newt leans back in his seat with the same look in his eyes Sasha had had that morning when imagining writing "kind words only" on Newt's face. It doesn't reassure Hermann the slightest.

"Well, I guess I have five months to find out then," Newt says. "That should be plenty of time."

A single thought from two weeks ago plays back in Hermann's mind to the tune of a horror movie's soundtrack.

_Only about a thousand and one ways this could all go horribly, horribly wrong_.

* * *

A/N: To everyone who's left amazingly kind reviews or favorited this or even just read this far, I offer you virtual hugs and gross sobbing because y'all make my day TT_TT


	7. Capitalist Shopping Spree, True Art

It's days like Valentine's Day that Newt thinks they're _really_ stretching the definition of a "holiday." If you love someone, he figures, you'd show it every day, wouldn't you? You'd do nice things and be sweet all the time because _you love them_. Clearly then, Valentine's Day is nothing more than a corporate-advertised capitalist shopping spree conspiracy designed to leech money from the wallets of the unsuspecting brainwashed masses and to induce all sorts of health complications from overconsumption of sugar.

Ok, maybe it just rubs him a bit the wrong way when Tendo and Alison walk into Biochem first thing in the morning practically glued together and proceed to pretty much ignore him the whole day in favor of each other's company.

Really. That is so _gross_.

And even worse, there are couples exactly like them, holding hands, giving each other flowers, laughing and having a nice time around almost every corner of campus, so he can't even find a place to escape.

So. Gross.

The final straw comes when Black Velvet Rabbit (as they'd finally agreed to name the band; in Newt's opinion, Sasha had had much too much of a say in it) after classes for its regularly scheduled practice and he finds: one, Sasha and Aleksis eating each other's faces; two, Alison and Naomi tittering in the center of the room; and three, Tendo and Yancy attempting to one-up each other by playing – which piece is that supposed to be? His ears are _bleeding _here.

"That's it," Newt says, throwing his hands in the air. Tendo's the only one who has the decency to look the least bit embarrassed. Sasha and Aleksis don't even pay him any attention. "Practice is canceled today since apparently you guys can't keep it in your pants. Great job, team."

"Nah, Newt. The girls are only here to listen," Yancy drawls, an easy grin on his face. That stupid ebullience of his, combined with his good looks and unbelievable football skills (seriously, the guy got a _full ride_ for football), lands him squarely in "highly-desired by pretty much everyone, guys included" territory, which only serves to piss Newt off even more right now.

"Fine. If someone can get those two over there to stop _touching_ each other long enough to set their crap up, we'll get started. And you," he says to Yancy in particular, "stop doing that. That's not how you play a fucking guitar, for Chrissake. Haven't I been teaching you better than that?"

"Sorry. It's what they do in all the music videos," Yancy says sheepishly, pushing a protesting Tendo toward the two Russians.

"Well that just means you've been listening to the wrong music," Newt snaps, peeved. Tendo doesn't seem to be having much luck breaking Sasha and Aleksis apart. He really doesn't have the time for more of this crap today.

"I think they're alright," Yancy says, shifting the guitar strap around to a more comfortable position. He fiddles with the strings, strumming a chord absentmindedly. Naomi leans her head on his shoulder, and he rests his cheek on top of her head. Newt thinks he's about to puke from all this.

And Sasha and Aleksis are still not cooperating.

"Ok, I'm going home," Newt says at last, rolling his eyes and shouldering his guitar case. "You guys can stay and make out or impress your girlfriends or whatever. I've got better things to do than fifth wheel for the lot of you. Make sure you've got the first two pages down by tomorrow, and don't forget to unplug everything and lock up before you leave. I can trust you with that at least, can I?"

The last thing he sees as he exits the room is everyone following his first suggestions. He doesn't even get a "goodbye" or "sure thing, Newt, you can count on us because we're all responsible people."

Gross.

* * *

"You're back early," Hermann remarks turning to the door as Newt steps inside. "Did your band break up already? I must say I'm surprised you even made it past the one-month mark. I believe some congratulations are in order, followed by some _sincere_ condolences."

"Shut up, Hermann," Newt replies, tossing his sheet music onto his bed (still unmade) and leaning the guitar case against the side of his desk. He slumps down into his chair.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' then?"

"No. God. They're just – " He waves his hands around vaguely. "Not being focused. Ugh, I hate Valentine's Day so much."

"Would that be because you don't have a significant other?" Hermann asks snidely. Like he's one to talk.

"Shut up, Hermann," Newt says again, sulking. "It's not that, ok? It's just that all I'm asking for is an hour, and apparently they can't even give me that, you know? Just one fucking hour. And we had this all scheduled out before, so I mean, they all knew what they were signing up for."

"You are such a _child_."

"Yeah, well, technically I'm still a kid since I'm seventeen. So, ha. That's not even an insult. And you can't use it anyway because you're seventeen too."

"I was referring to your mental age." Hermann jots something down in his notebook, the one he won't let Newt touch. Ever. The same way Newt will never let Hermann touch his research notes (although the main difference is that Hermann doesn't actually _want_ to know what Newt's research is about, whereas Newt is dying to know if the black bound book is some sort of thicker version of the Death Note in which Hermann's written the names of all his enemies).

"Let me get that down in a song. How does 'Dirge for my Mental Age and Today's Band Practice' sound?" Newt says, dragging the guitar case in front of himself and opening it, each buckle making a satisfyingly crisp snap. "A two-part canon capturing my sad life on a Valentine's Day spent in the company of a certain grumpy mathlete because everyone else is too busy being unnecessarily saccharine."

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't play any of your instruments in the room."

"I don't even have my amp here. Hello, do you know how an electric guitar works?" He strums it a few times for emphasis. "You can't possibly complain about _this_, can you?"

Hermann harrumphs but doesn't reply, returning to his neglected homework. In the relative quiet of the dorms (has everyone else all gone out or something?), Newt picks at the strings and hums softly, the notes materializing in his head. He pauses once to open his laptop and pull up a rhyme website.

"Here. How about this? You left me alone today/But there was never anything to say/And you told me all along/We would be together to share this song/Guess it was too much a stretch,'" he sings ten minutes later, mentally saving the melody because it's actually not too bad, even if the lyrics right now are an incredible amount of suck.

Hermann's silent. Newt cocks his head expectantly.

"Well?"

"It sounds like something a hormonal thirteen-year-old wrote in a fit of moodiness."

"True art is never appreciated," Newt sighs dramatically, feigning snobbery. "One day when I'm famous, you'll regret not praising my godly talents. I'll even dedicate a whole chapter in my future best-selling autobiography to how much of a wet blanket my roommate was, just for you."

"You go on believing that," Hermann scoffs. "Whatever will help you sleep better at night."

Newt sticks his tongue out at him and gets another round of "Newton Geiszler, you are a _child_" in return.

This is definitely not how he imagined he'd be spending his first Valentine's Day in college.

* * *

The complaining doesn't stop at dinner.

"Look at how many people _aren't_ here today. I bet they're all off having fun with their stupid valentines," Newt says with his mouth full of spaghetti. He brandishes his fork around, sending droplets of tomato sauce splattering on the table. Hermann buries his face in his hands.

"Why don't you run off and bother your friends instead of following me around everywhere, Newton?"

"Newt," he corrects automatically, spearing a meatball. "And like I said, they're all off doing whatever. I checked, ok? They're all gone. Every single one of them. It's unbelievable."

"Yes. I, for one, find that hard to believe," Hermann says, trying to eat without nagging Newt about all the mess he's making. Seriously, where did he learn his table manners?

Hermann's guessing it's a trick question: he never did learn any table manners at all.

"Well, they _are_ all gone, so joke's on you. Where're your friends? They ditched you too?"

Hermann shrugs. "I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

"Because, unlike you, I don't feel the need to keep track of their every movement. And also unlike you and your friends, we aren't attached at the hip, and I don't make any pretense of it. Would you _please_ wipe your mouth? That is disgusting."

Newt ignores him. "It really is just Single Awareness Day today, isn't it? This is so sad."

"I don't see the point of grousing. You're just wasting your breath," Hermann says, sipping his cup of tea.

"No, see, the concept doesn't make sense, but then people just go along with it anyway. And that's what's annoying. Like, do you really need a special day to tell someone you love them?"

"You'll understand when you get older. Possibly."

"Oh, there you go again with your high and mightiness. Wise old Hermann, dispensing wisdom to the poor, undeserving Newt. Just hear me out, ok? If you translated it to something else, like Mother's Day or Father's Day, doesn't it feel just like you're just being nice on one day and expecting that all those other days when you _aren't_ will be erased or something?"

Hermann stabs a lettuce leaf, imagining it's Newt's vocal chords so he would _stop talking_.

"I wouldn't know. But, if that's the case, I suspect we need many more of those," he says.

"More? Are you kidding? Are you speaking from experience? You ever had a girlfriend?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just saying, your opinion – "

"I never thought I would say this, but I preferred your complaining."

"Fine." Newt says, gesturing vigorously with his fork again. "If you don't want to talk, fine. Wait, does that mean I get free rein on deconstructing Valentine's Day?"

Hermann groans. "You are _impossible_."

"Lesser of two evils and all that, right?" Newt says with a grin, nudging Hermann's arm. Hermann scoots a bit further away from him, though the table was meant for two anyway so it doesn't change much.

"I would rather have no evil at all."

"Then maybe they should get rid of Valentine's Day once and for all."

* * *

Valentine's Day's final affront to Newt comes the next day when no one has made any progress whatsoever on the song, and they still have four more to learn, dammit.

Stupid gross Valentine's Day.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, this whole chapter was really forced because I didn't plan everything out and then the dialogue wouldn't cooperate OTL I really regret signing up for this many AP classes, school and college apps are killing me T_T haizegato (and I guess anyone else who's curious about it?) no, there won't be any overt romance, but you can read between the lines if you want to? I'm sort of modeling it after one of my friendships where we almost constantly tease each other but I'd do pretty much anything for her.

Also no, I didn't even try at all with the song lyrics.


	8. Paper Airplane, Tangled Wires

The paper airplane arcs lazily through the air before depositing itself neatly on Hermann's desk. Hermann turns with a glare to find Newt lounging on his bed, a bright smile on his lips.

"Newton Geiszler, what is the meaning of this?"

"It's Newt," he says. He raises his eyebrows. "Well, go on. Read it."

With a sigh, Hermann sets his pencil down and unfolds the paper, carefully smoothing out the creases that now mar its surface.

The first thing that hits him is how _nice_ it looks. Almost like something designed by a professional. At the top, in large letters, the words "BLACK VELVET RABBIT" curve and meld into a stylized rabbit head. The main body of the flier has a silhouette of five people (he's assuming they're "Black Velvet Rabbit") playing various musical instruments, the edges stylistically rendered to resemble paint splatter.

"Black Velvet Rabbit?" he asks, glancing at the information printed on the bottom. There's a date and am address.

"Yeah. The band."

"I've never heard of them," Hermann says, folding the plane back up along its lines to throw back at Newt.

Newt sighs. "_My_ band? You know, the one I put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into? The one you thought wouldn't ever actually be a thing? We're performing live for the first time at the Dumpling House in two weeks."

Hermann's brow furrows. "_Black Velvet Rabbit_?"

"That wasn't _my_ decision, ok? We're a democratic organization, and Sasha's very… persuasive. Especially when Aleksis is backing her up. You don't disagree with Sasha and Aleksis."

"Very democratic organization, I'm sure," Hermann snorts. He launches the airplane and it shoots forward a few feet before dropping pathetically onto the floor. "Good luck then."

"So, are you going?" Newt asks, rolling off his bed to retrieve the flier from the floor.

"No."

"You're killing me, Hermann," Newt grumbles. He throws the plane at the back of Hermann's head, eliciting a strangled noise of frustration when it hit its target. "Just this once?"

"Newton – "

"Newt."

" – I have a project due the day after. I don't have time."

"Are you kidding?" Newt huffs. "You always finish your work like, a whole week before the deadline. Let's be real here; you'd _never_ leave a whole lot to do on the last day."

"Nevertheless – "

"Two hours. It's only two hours. And you've got to eat either way, so if you really think about it, that's only an extra hour, hour and fifteen minutes you're spending away from your precious project."

Hermann buries his face in his hands and wishes desperately that the old childhood adage "you can't see me if I can't see you" were true.

"I'm almost completely certain our musical tastes have no overlap whatsoever," he says at last.

Newt shrugs. "Tell me what kind of music you like, and I'll throw in a solo just for you."

Hermann switches tactics. "I'm sure you'd want your friends to be there instead. I'll simply be taking up a seat that someone who would enjoy your performance could've had."

"But I _do_ want you to be there, Hermann. I'm really proud of how we managed to get our shit together. And it's the one thing I _can_ show off to you, since you don't, you know, really get all the science I'm doing."

Hermann freezes. The only place people have ever wanted him to be was somewhere else. He unclenches his fingers.

"Fine. I'll consider it."

"Yeah!" Newt whoops, punching a fist in the air. "It's gonna be great. I promise. We've all worked our asses off. This'll be the debut of a lifetime. One day you'll look back at your college years and wonder how you managed to meet someone as awesome as me."

"I'm sure that will be the case," Hermann says, sarcasm dripping in his voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things I need to do."

* * *

There are posters everywhere. Literally everywhere. When Hermann goes to each class, there are fliers advertising Black Velvet Rabbit plastered on every door and window. He sees Yancy (who of course attracts lot of attention; kudos to Newt for knowing how to use his publicity resources to their max) distributing some by the bookstore. Someone had even painted a few sidewalk signs with the band's logo.

It's like the Thanksgiving Twilight Zone thing all over again.

"Just how much money did you spend making all those copies?" Hermann asks Newt one day as he's getting ready for bed. Newt starts and looks up from the sheet music spread out across his desk.

"What?"

"I asked how much you spent on the fliers."

"That's just a small detail," Newt says, waving a hand flippantly. He jots something down on one of the papers and shifts his fingers on the neck of the guitar as if testing it out.

"I don't know how you're going to survive in the real world."

"Relax, Hermann. We split the cost, and I just applied for a summer research internship that's got a pretty nice stipend. I'll just have to not buy anything until then."

"A very likely thing."

"That was _one_ time. I can control my spending habits, ok?" Newt says distractedly. "Hey, which one do you like better? This – " he hums a short series of notes, " – or this?" he hums another, but with a higher pitch at the end.

"I don't know," Hermann says, struggling into bed. His leg hasn't been feeling too great lately. It's probably going to rain soon.

"Come on, you've got to have _some_ kind of opinion."

"The… second one then." Newt scribbles something down.

"Alright. Good night, Hermann." He reaches over to flick the light switch before turning his lamp on.

Hermann pauses.

"Good night, Newt."

* * *

It's pouring the next morning, and by some miracle Newt is already awake when Hermann's alarm goes off.

"It's _raining_," Newt says with distress written all over his face, sitting up and pointing at the window. He looks so small and disappointed that Hermann can't help but feel a little pity.

"I'm sure it will clear up by the afternoon," he tries to reassure Newt.

"But – but it wasn't supposed to rain. It was supposed to be _perfect_ today."

"If worst comes to worst, you can always reschedule it."

"I guess so," Newt says glumly, falling back onto his bed with a muffled thump. He tugs the blankets over his head as Hermann swings himself gingerly to the ground.

"See you later, Hermann."

* * *

By the end of all his classes, the rain has eased itself into a gentle sprinkling. Hermann pulls his parka (the one that makes him look "like a green man-shaped marshmallow") tighter around himself and shivers. He glances at his watch. 3:27. He has some time left, so he goes downtown to one of his favorite cafés for some tea. Comfortably settled in, he pulls up the files for his project (which, yes, he _did_ finish two days ago, but there's something called editing that Newt needs to learn how to do).

He almost forgets about Black Velvet Rabbit entirely, snapping out of a trance when he reaches for another biscuit and encounters only air. At this rate he'll be late, so he hastily pays and shoves the computer into his bag.

When he gets to the actual restaurant squished between two other buildings, he wonders for a moment where exactly they expect to play before walking in and being directed to the back. There's a good-sized courtyard behind the building in which a small, makeshift stage has been set up. The band's instruments are arranged on top of it, a tarp protecting everything from the last vestiges of rain. In the remaining space, dozens of chairs and small tables are scattered, most of which are already occupied. Hermann finds a place in the back and takes a seat, trying to blend into the background.

"Will you be ordering anything?"

He jumps and turns to see one of the Wei Tang triplets standing by his elbow, twirling a pen in one hand.

"The uh, the beef potstickers, please," he stutters, giving what he hopes is a friendly smile.

"Coming right up."

Hermann leans back and surveys the crowd. A sizeable number of them are his classmates, but he's surprised to see some older people (he guesses Newt's advertising did work out well in the end). The ambient noise slowly increases as the last stragglers arrive to the point that he regrets coming at all and almost slips away. But, at that moment, five people peel out of the crowd and start taking down the tarp.

A cheer goes up when they step on stage, and Hermann can see Newt's giddiness in the way he's adding a bit of flair to all his motions. Newt steps up and taps on the microphone.

"Hey, everyone. Nice to see you all here! We're Black Velvet Rabbit, and we've got an awesome lineup of songs today, from covers of the latest hits and classics to original pieces written by yours truly. And without further ado, enjoy!" He steps back to another round of applause, waiting a few seconds before nodding in Aleksis's direction.

The cymbals start quietly, building up as the other instruments join. Hermann doesn't recognize the song, but apparently everyone else does because they all start singing at the chorus and Newt looks like he's drunk on power or something.

"Hey, is this seat taken?" One of the triplets is standing by his elbow again, pointing at the empty chair next to his. Hermann shakes his head, and he plunks himself down into it.

"I'm Jin," he says with a sunny smile, sticking out his hand. Hermann shakes it hesitantly. "They your classmates?"

"Um, yes. The one on guitar is my roommate."

Jin raises his eyebrows, impressed. "Newt? He's pretty cool. He's a regular here, so I think some of the other regulars came just to see him. Oh, this one's a great song; you heard it before?"

"Maybe on the radio once?"

"Hmm. Well, it's a good list of songs. I wanted to be in a band last year. Mostly because they get so popular. But then I had to learn how to play guitar, and I gave up." He laughs. Hermann joins awkwardly.

"So, what do you think of them?" Jin asks as the seventh song starts.

"They… aren't bad."

"Only 'not bad'?"

"I don't usually listen to this genre. Newt badgered me into coming."

"Just for Newt? That's sweet," Jin says with a cheeky grin. "Are you – oh shit, Granny." He shoots out of the seat, grabbing a pad of paper from a pocket. "If she asks, I wasn't here." He disappears somewhere, leaving behind a put out Hermann.

He recognizes a grand total of one song before the show seems to end, half of the attendees giving them a standing ovation. Newt hangs back for a second, scanning the crowd until he makes eye contact with Hermann. He beams and gives Hermann a thumbs up before stepping back up to the microphone.

"Before we end, I'd like to give a shout out to my roommate Hermann Gottlieb, without whose constant doubt I probably would never have stuck through with this." Hermann shrinks back as far as he can into the shadows, a flush creeping onto his cheeks as everyone turns to stare at him. "So, I'd like to sing you all a song I wrote in honor of his skepticism. I call it 'A List of Things You'll Regret When I'm a Famous Rockstar.' Stay gold, Hermann. Stay gold."

Hermann's ready to dig a hole and curl up in it out of sheer embarrassment. And the worst part is that the song is actually really well written, and no one's ever written him a song before, even if it's only half-joking and half-sincere. At the end, he thinks he picks out the phrase Newt had asked him about, and in retrospect the first one probably sounded better, but it's too late for that now.

"And that's it for tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don't forget to check us out on MySpace! We'll keep you updated on possible future concerts." After one last round of applause, people start trickling out of the courtyard, and Newt begins directing cleanup. Hermann stands and makes his way to the stage.

"You came, Hermann!" Newt throws his arms around Hermann, catching him by surprise.

"That was completely unnecessary," he says with as much dignity as he can muster, gently shoving Newt away.

"Did you like the song?"

"It wasn't bad."

"Which in Hermannspeak means it was totally _amazing_."

Hermann rolls his eyes. "Do you need help with any of that?"

"Yeah, we've got the van parked out front, but if you wouldn't mind straightening up some of the wires, that'd be great." He points to the cables running out of the various electronics, some of which have become impossible tangled masses. Hermann sighs and pulls up a chair, doggedly attacking the worst knot.

"You could've saved yourself this trouble if you had set them up neatly in the first place."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Hermann. Anyway, I think we had a box for those somewhere. I'll go find it for you." Newt turns to leave but stops and faces him again with a smile.

"And hey, thanks for coming."

* * *

A/N: About the MySpace thing (if you were wondering? it's kind of a small detail): I've changed the ages of some of the characters, but I've kept Newt and Hermann's consistent with canon (1/19/90 and 6/9/89 respectively). Based on my timeline, it's March 2007 now, which was when MySpace was still _the_ social network website. I've also tried to limit how much I change everyone's ages, which is why you won't see Raleigh or Chuck or Mako (I mean, attending the school at least) (I have a huge soft spot for the Wei triplets so they're here as extras).


	9. Cardboard Box, the Last Disk

_WARNING: spoilers for Samurai Champloo episode 22. If you'd like to skip that section, it starts after "It goes downhill after that" and ends at the section break basically._

* * *

Newt crashes into the dorm room with an opened cardboard box in his hands, and right then and there Hermann know this will mean only bad news for him.

"Guess what just came in the mail today," Newt says, eyes gleaming with excitement. He flops into his chair and with one push sends himself careening toward Hermann's desk. Hermann draws back as Newt shoves the box under his nose like an overeager puppy showing its owner something it found on the street.

"I don't want to know," Hermann says with as much disgust as he can put in his inflection.

"Oh, come on, take a look." Confronted by Newt in annoyingly persistent mode, Hermann gives in and peers into the box. Lying snugly in the nest of bubble wrap is some sort of DVD set, the outer cover of which has highly stylized and eye-catching lettering.

"_'Samurai Champloo'_? Is this another one of your animes?"

"_Anime_, Hermann. And uh, yeah. Duh. It's been on my to-watch list for months, but I've mostly been trying to catch up on the series I've already started and I never got around to it."

"So you bought the complete box set instead? Whatever happened to being financially responsible?"

"God, let me finish, Hermann. I was just about to say that Uncle Gunter picked it up for my birthday, but he forgot to send it over. Which isn't all that surprising, considering the amount of crap he has in his garage. He probably set it down somewhere and forgot about it. But anyway, I've got an excuse to watch it now."

"Good for you," Hermann says dryly. "But, do you actually have the time to spend watching carto – anime between all of your other commitments?"

"Yeah. It's called 'sleep is for the weak.' Ok, it's not true from a biological standpoint, but you get the gist, right?"

"Assuming the gist is that you make poor decisions, then yes, I did."

"Whatever, Hermann. You're not my mom."

"A fact of which I'm very glad."

"Blah, blah, blah" Newt says, making a dismissive hand gesture and sliding back toward his own side of the room. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some awesome anime to start."

"And your homework?"

"Not my mom, Hermann," Newt says, opening his laptop. Shaking his head, Hermann returns to his work, trying to ignore the faint ache behind his eyes. Newt, of course, turns the sound on way too high, so the indistinct sounds of dialogue and fighting can still be heard coming from his headphones in the background.

He gets so wrapped up in a novel after finishing his homework (his eyes are _really_ starting to hurt now and he should go to sleep, but it's so damn enthralling) that it takes him a few moments to register when the noise stops and Newt starts talking to him.

"What?"

"I asked if you're going home for break next week. 'Cause on one hand my parents are actually back in the States now, so I could go and visit them. But, on the other hand, if everyone's gone, I can hook my computer up to the big screen TV downstairs to watch stuff. Plus, it's a little late now to be buying plane tickets anyway."

"No, I'm not going home," Hermann says, rubbing his eyes. For some reason, the day has been particularly exhausting, and Newt's limitless reserves of energy are only draining his dwindling ones further.

Newt looks off to the side, eyebrows winkled, as if fishing for the correct words to match the things flying through his head. None too patiently, Hermann waits for him to gather his thoughts into something coherent.

"Why don't you… ever go home for break?" Newt asks quietly after the deliberation. He adds hastily, "Well, I mean, if you don't want to answer, that's perfectly fine too. It's none of my business; I'm just curious."

Hermann sighs, the weariness multiplying in his bones, but what the hell, he supposes it would be – cathartic? – to finally let some of the steam out.

"I – my father and I are… estranged."

Newt doesn't say anything, so he continues.

"I've never knew him very well because he was always somewhere else on the opposite side of the globe lecturing, or doing research, or whatever else it was that was more important than his family. Two years ago, he was assigned to a government project whose means I don't agree with. And, now that he was actually living at home, we naturally had several disagreements, the last of which ended with his severance of any financial support for my education."

"Oh," Newt says softly when Hermann stops. "I'm – I'm sorry, man."

"So, I'm here entirely on scholarships and student loans, which I'm honestly not bitter about, but he keeps trying to recruit me to his project, as if I'm nothing more than a brain and owe him simply because he's my father. I owe him _nothing_."

"Yeah, man, that's – wow, that's really shitty."

"And there you have it. The sad and tragic tale of why Hermann Gottlieb never goes home for break," Hermann says sardonically. "I'm going to sleep now, if you don't mind. It's been a very tiring day."

"Ye-yeah, sure. Good night."

"Good night."

* * *

The next morning, a discordant beeping drags Newt from his peaceful slumber. He raises his head blearily and spots a flashing light on Hermann's side.

"Hermann, would you turn the fucking alarm off?" he asks, letting his face fall back into the pillow with a thump. A groan like the sound of a dying whale comes from the other bed.

"Can you do it for me?" Hermann's voice is raspy, and Newt squints at the figure still bundled up in the blankets.

"On what planet is it difficult to turn off an alarm clock?" Newt mutters, echoing Hermann's words ironically. The blurry blob across from him shifts slightly.

"I don't feel well, you imbecile," comes the hoarse reply. "Do you think I _want_ to listen to it?"

"You got sick right when break started? Talk about bad timing."

"I'm just relieved I don't have to miss any class time."

"Of course you'd think like that. Hey, wait, why'd you set the alarm so early then?"

"Early to bed and early to rise…" Hermann trails off and coughs several times.

"_You_ obviously aren't healthy right now, so I'd say that's a giant load of bullshit." Newt reluctantly slides out of bed and teeters for a second when his feet touch the floor. Stumbling over to Hermann's desk, he gropes around and grabs the offending item. "Do I just hit snooze? Or will it start again in five minutes unless I hit a special series of buttons or some other crap like that?"

"Do you see the 'alarm' button?"

Newt holds the clock up to his face. "I do now."

"Push it."

"Done."

"Thank you. You can go back to sleep now."

"Great. I don't know if I _can_ go back to sleep. That's really wonderful. How do you turn this stupid thing off? So this doesn't happen again tomorrow."

"There's a switch on the side."

"Ok, got it."

Hermann sniffs in reply and sneezes, the bed frame creaking from the force. There's some rustling as he turns from the wall to face Newt. His eyes are watery, the tip of his nose red, his cheeks flushed.

"Would you mind giving me the tissue box too? And the trash can?"

"Geez, you look terrible. What's wrong?" Newt asks, fetching the requested items. He drops the former by Hermann's side and sets the latter down where Hermann can easily throw things into it. "You got any medication?"

"If you wouldn't mind buying a bottle of aspirin, I'd appreciate it. I'll pay you back," Hermann says, blowing his nose and tossing the used tissue weakly into the trash can.

"Sure. Just give me a minute to get dressed and stuff. You want anything for breakfast while I'm at it?"

"A cup of tea would be nice. Any tea."

"Got it." Newt slings on his jacket and reaches for his glasses. "Aspirin and tea. You have something to heat the water up with, right?"

"I have an electric kettle, yes."

"I'll be back in ten minutes," Newt says, checking that he has money in his wallet before stuffing it into the pocket of his sweatpants. Searching through a drawer, he turns up a pair of clean socks and pulls them on.

"Thanks," Hermann mumbles, drained from the conversation. Newt slips on his shoes and heads for the door.

"You're a good friend, Newt."

Newt freezes with his hand on the doorknob. He opens his mouth to talk but closes it, a small smile on his lips.

"You must be really sick to call me a friend."

Then he quietly leaves.

* * *

"Newton, I'm still sick," Hermann says, exasperated. It's Wednesday; his head doesn't hurt anymore, the aches are gone from his body, and his fever's almost run its course. The only thing that hasn't changed is his dearth of energy.

And his annoying roommate. Who is currently sitting, uninvited, on _his_ bed with _Samurai Champloo_ open on the laptop between them.

"Don't worry, I've got a good immune system. I'm not going to catch anything."

"What I _meant_," Hermann sighs, "was that I'd rather be resting."

"Bullshit, man. You just asked me to get your gross math textbook for you so you could study. How is watching _Samurai Champloo_ any less relaxing?"

Hermann doesn't answer him, although he _does_ get the urge to accidentally nudge the laptop off the edge of the mattress.

"Fine. But just one episode."

"Alright! That's the spirit," Newt says, clicking on episode twenty-two in the scene selection. The screen cuts to the opening, an odd, tuneless song Hermann doesn't think really qualifies as "music."

It goes downhill after that.

"Did he just – what? Why isn't he bleeding? That man cut his arm off."

"I dunno. I haven't seen this episode either."

"What is this show _about_?" Hermann asks, watching with a morbid fascination as the man casually reattaches the severed limb.

"Uh, not this, usually," Newt says, wincing. "I'm lost too. Whoa, yeah, that's creepy."

They continue the rest of the episode commenting on the weirdness ("Eww, who eats wasabi like that?" "What do you mean it's been _500_ years?" "Holy shit, they really are zombies?" "No, Newt, the arm incident wasn't a dead giveaway."), but the ending leaves both of them in a stunned silence.

"Remind me again what this show is supposed to be about," Hermann says after Newt stops the DVD as the opening for the next episode starts.

"It's about the girl – Fuu – trying to find this samurai who smells like sunflowers. And those two guys – Mugen and Jin – are basically her bodyguards. There's a lot of obvious anachronisms and stuff in the anime, but like I said, it's not usually like… _this_."

"So did they all die there?"

Newt shrugs. "We could watch the next episode," he suggests. Hermann knows it's a bad idea before the words come out of his mouth, but he can't help his curiosity.

"Fine."

* * *

"Dude, which episode are you on now?" Newt asks, glancing curiously at the DVD case next to Hermann's pillow.

"I need the last disk," Hermann says, turning a reproachful, bloodshot glare at him.

"Are you kidding? It's only been, like, two and a half days. Is this all you've been doing when I go outside?"

"I want you to know," Hermann says, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "that you drove me to this, and it's all your fault."

"Whoa, you don't have to be like that," Newt says, holding his hands up defensively. "I haven't watched the last episode yet, so do you want to watch it together when you get there?"

Hermann holds out his hand, eye glued back on the screen of his laptop.

"Just give me the damn disk."

* * *

A/N: Why _Samurai Champloo_? Because I loved it and I've actually watched it, unlike NGE (which was probably painfully obvious in that chapter). Episode 22 was so weird, but now that I've read some meta about it, it's actually got a ton of symbolism and depth to it. Also, to clarify, I actually quite like "Battlecry," but I don't think Hermann would like it? It actually took a few episodes to grow on me either way (the same way "The Bus is Late (Waiting for the Bus in the Rain)" took a few listenings to like).

And yes, there was a _Gattaca_ reference because that stupid movie broke my heart ok.


	10. Ornithorhynchus anatinus, Gummy Bears

It's Newt's third cup of coffee, he's cycled through his entire iTunes playlist, his fifteen-page paper (regarding the evolutionary history of _Ornithorhynchus anatinus_) isn't even half done, and he can't quite put his finger on it, but something's definitely off. He wonders if maybe someone shifted everything in the room to the left by half an inch or some other nefarious prank. He wouldn't put it past Tendo and Yancy.

By chance, he glances at the time when he goes to skip a song on his laptop. He does a double take.

"It's two already?"

"Yes," comes the irritated reply. "Yes, it is."

"It's two in the morning, and you're still awake?"

"I imagine it would be rather _difficult_ for us to hold this conversation otherwise," Hermann says with the same strained inflection.

"But, like, you don't stay up past midnight. Not even before finals."

"Unfortunately, I didn't choose very reliable people to work with," Hermann growls, typing angrily. Newt's never seen anyone type angrily the way Hermann does, as if each key had personally offended everything he stands for.

"Hey man, what's wrong? Do you need help or something?"

Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose. "Newt, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think it would be better if we both went back to what we were working on."

"Fine, fine. Just don't murder anyone. At least, not me."

They lapse back into relative silence, the only sound between them that of fingers striking keys and pages being sullenly turned. Newt's mind starts wandering after the seventh page of his paper, and he finds himself staring at the same article in _Nature_ for a solid four minutes.

"Herma – "

"It's a group project due tomorrow. Or today, I suppose," Hermann sighs. "We were supposed to begin compiling all of our sections together on Monday, but _someone_ claimed he needed more time. Then, the same thing happened the next day, and the next, until he finally confessed this afternoon that he'd done absolutely _nothing_ over the past three weeks. I should never have allowed this to happen."

"Why didn't you tell your professor?"

"We're not in high school anymore. Deadlines are deadlines."

"Well, you should've talked to the other people in your group, at least. You shouldn't have to do everything by yourself."

"Frankly, I have no more faith in any of them. It's simpler to complete it on my own."

"Whatever floats your boat, I guess," Newt says with a shrug, curiosity temporarily sated. He settles back into the painfully slow progress of his paper, alternating between actually working and catching up on _One Piece_.

"What is this trying to say?" Hermann snarls suddenly, banging a fist on his desk. Newt jumps at the sound, pulled out of the Zen stage of the all-nighter. He checks the time. 3:14.

"Listen. 'In the context of the problem, that is to say, that she had been able to go but chose not to go, and that had she not been able to go, she would have wanted to go, not discounting the physical and material constraints of the theorized latter conditions, the metaphysics of the issue at hand changes to suit the specific explanation of morality through which the individual is examined as compared to the collective conscience, the former of which has roles and duties to the latter that depend entirely upon the lens through which we view the situation in addition to the situation itself,'" Hermann growls. "That's all one sentence, by the way."

"Wow."

"Some people," Hermann continues, slamming the laptop shut, "shouldn't ever be allowed to write."

"Dude, calm down, ok? Why don't you take a break? You'll feel better after a nap. You can work later."

"I don't understand how he was even _admitted_ into this school," he fumes, pacing back and forth. "Frankly, it's an insult to my intelligence."

"Hey, hey," Newt says, swiveling around. "Chillax. Go to sleep, ok? I'll wake you up in half an hour. Or you could set up the alarm, but it's like, I don't know about you, but I'd be pretty cranky if I woke up to _that_ noise. If you want, you can use my phone."

"Alright," Hermann says, sitting down on the edge of his mattress. "Half an hour, and no more." He rubs his temples and sets his reading glasses on a stack of papers before falling into bed without changing.

"Got it. Half an hour," Newt says, pulling up an online countdown. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

"Hermann," Newt says, shaking his roommate. Hermann groans and draws away from him. "Hermann," Newt repeats more forcefully, gently slapping him (God, those cheekbone could cut through steel).

"Hermann!"

"I'm awake!" Hermann shouts, curling up into a ball. "And now I feel worse than before. Thanks."

"Believe me," Newt says, dragging the covers off. "Once you really wake up, you'll be glad you took a nap. I'm speaking from experience here. You're talking to the all-nighter expert."

"It feels like someone removed all of my internal organs and ground them into a paste," Hermann grumbles, burying his face in his hands. "How do you do this all the time?"

"You get used to it. Come on; you've got a project to get done."

"I'm seriously contemplating letting us all fail at this point," Hermann says, climbing reluctantly out of bed.

"What? That isn't the Hermann we all know and love."

"There _isn't_ a Hermann you know and love." He squeezes his eyes shut. "I think I can afford a C on this if I do well on the final."

"No," Newt says, tugging on his arm. "You can do this. You're Hermann fucking Gottlieb. You can fight this assignment. You can win."

"Thank you for your input," Hermann says dryly, standing up and stretching.

"I wasn't being sarcastic, you know."

"I know. Now, we both have plenty to do. Let's get down to business."

* * *

Just as he finishes the final edits on the eleventh page, Newt's stomach growls so loudly he can hear it through his music. He takes a peek at the time.

"Hey, the cafeteria opens in ten minutes. You wanna go get a bite to eat?"

"Let me finish this section first," Hermann says, hunched over his work.

"Sure. Just tell me when you're done." Newt leans back and scowls at the remainder of his paper. Four more pages to polish, and he can get this stupid thing over and done with. Gritting his teeth, he sets to attacking the next paragraph.

A few minutes later, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He pulls out his earphones and turns around. The first things that catch his attention are the dark rings under Hermann's eyes. He hadn't thought it was possible for Hermann to look more like he hated everything in the world; he was wrong.

"You ready?" he asks, looking around for a jacket. He finds one that doesn't smell too bad hidden under a pile of journals stacked on his bed and slings it on.

"Let's go," Hermann says, carefully pocketing his key.

They step out into the cool spring morning, the campus seemingly deserted. Newt hums as they make their way to the dining commons, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop them from freezing.

"So… how's it going?" he asks, waiting as Hermann hands the cashier his meal card to swipe.

"I can probably finish in an hour, but I'll be late for class," Hermann replies brusquely.

"Told you you'd make it," Newt laughs, jabbing him in the side with his elbow. "You wanna grab some stuff to take back or sit down and eat an actual meal?"

"I would like very much to have a hot cup of tea," he says, making a beeline for the drinks. Newt trails after him and grabs a mug.

"Personally, I think coffee's better," Newt says, pouring himself a cup.

"That's because you're addicted to it."

"Uh, then _you're_ addicted to tea," he retorts, taking a sip of the steaming liquid.

Hermann fixes him with a wooden glare. "I drink a cup or two a day. You drink six or seven."

"I only have that much fifty percent of the time," Newt protests as they each take a plate and pile on food.

"I agree. The other fifty percent of the time you drink eight or more."

"You're just jealous because you don't have the same kind of dedication," Newt says, claiming a seat at one of the tables by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hermann sets his plate down across from Newt's and sits.

"It's certainly peaceful this early in the morning," Hermann remarks, pointedly ignoring Newt's comment.

"'Cause nobody _wants_ to be up at this time."

"Nevertheless, here we are."

"Yeah, well, it's kinda nice, isn't it? It's usually always so loud you can't even hear yourself think."

Hermann stares out the windows, chewing thoughtfully.

"I do suppose it's a welcome change, for once."

Newt isn't sure how exactly to respond, so he settles for combining a shrug and a nod. A shrod. A nug. He needs more sleep.

They slip back into the companionable silence that had lasted them through the past hours, an unspoken understanding and mutual sympathy between them. Newt watches as people slowly trickle out of the dorms and plod over; Hermann watches the clouds and the sky as it changes colors.

"Hey Newt, Hermann." Tendo's cheery voice cuts through their thoughts (or lack thereof; Newt can only think vaguely of how much he wants to just lie down somewhere). They turn away from the window to look at him, and an incredulous expression crosses his face. "What happened to the you two?"

"Science," Newt says glumly.

"People," Hermann says angrily.

"When are those not the answers?" Tendo asks, lips quirking in a grin.

Newt and Hermann share a look, and maybe it's the insufficient sleep speaking, but Newt breaks out in laughter and Hermann follows him, Hermann actually starts _laughing_ even though it looks like he's trying his hardest to keep a straight face. And Newt can only think of how this is the first time they've ever shared a laugh like this and how he feels a weird twinge of regret that this will probably also be the last.

* * *

Newt drops the unlabeled paper bag in front of Hermann with no explanation, so, to be fair, Hermann has the _right_ to be immediately suspicious.

"What is this supposed to be?" he asks, poking it with his pen. The squished bow haphazardly attached to the corner falls to the desk with a sad blop.

"_Alles Gute zum Geburtstag_!" Newt says, smiling. "Go on, open it."

Hermann makes a face but complies anyway, ripping open the stapled top. Inverting it, he dumps out a familiar golden bag.

"Haribo gummy bears," Newt announces proudly, as if Hermann can't see for himself what they are. "And not the gross American ones either. Nope. These are authentic _Goldbären_ brought all the way here from Germany. Man, these bring back all sort of memories."

"I – thank you, Newt. It's been a while since I've eaten these," Hermann says. Actually, he can't remember the last time he had them. Likely it was before they'd moved to the United States. He tears off the corner of the pack and shakes a few onto his palm. "Would you like a few?"

"I've got another bag at home," Newt says. "I asked my parents to get them while they were on tour in Germany."

"Well, as you said, these do bring back memories."

Newt's grin widens. "So, does that mean I did it?"

"Did what?"

"Found something you _like_ for your birthday. Happy eighteenth, Hermann."

* * *

Finals the second time around are just as bad as they were the first time (which is to say, not all _that_ bad for Newt). Really, the only differences this time around are that everyone else is a bit more prepared and it isn't freezing cold outside.

Those and the fact that he's leaving on a completely different break this time.

After his last class, he returns to the dorm, and Hermann's already there, packing for the first time with a neat and precise efficiency. Newt sits at his desk, unable to bring himself to start taking everything out of where it's settled, unable to bring himself to make the ultimate concession to the idea that the year has ended and that he'll be ripped up from the niche he'd finally adapted to. It isn't fair.

But, eventually his mom calls to ask how his exams were and if he's ready for the flight tomorrow, which guilts him enough to drag out his suitcase and lay it open on the floor.

"Hey, Hermann." He pauses in chucking his clothing into a pile and sees that on the other side of the room Hermann's stopped halfway through folding a shirt.

"What is it?" Hermann asks, hand smoothing out a crease.

"We have to, uh, get rid of that, don't we?" he says, pointing to the duct tape dividing their room in half. "Funny, I'd almost forgotten it was here, you know what I mean?" he adds, voice cracking.

"Newt, are you… _crying_?" Hermann asks, crossing over to Newt's side.

"Shut up and help me peel it off, ok?" Newt sniffs, picking at the edge of the tape. Hermann squats down, with some difficulty, beside him.

"I – it – it was… an interesting year," Newt continues, refusing to make eye contact.

Hermann hesitates and awkwardly pats his arm. "I suppose it was certainly a memorable year."

"No, you don't – you don't get it. I know we didn't always get along, but I'm – dammit! I'm gonna miss you, you stupid math nerd. You and your ugly sweaters and your old man stuffiness and your piles of books you buy and never read." He throws his arms around Hermann, who stiffens momentarily.

"I thought I said no hugging," Hermann says without any real anger.

"I'm gonna miss you," Newt repeats, burying his face in Hermann's shoulder. Hermann transfers his awkward patting to Newt's back.

"I'll miss you too," he says gently. "Now, let's get this tape off the ground."

* * *

_A/N: I attended a program on a university campus this summer, and on the last day when my roommate's aunt and cousin were helping her move out I broke down and cried in front of them and I just wanted to hug my roommate and never let go or sneak into the back of her car or something, and I think that if just six weeks could do that to me, it'd be far worse saying goodbye to a college roommate?_

_Also, stay tuned for one last epilogue! Thank you all for reading this far; I don't think I could've ever finished this if I hadn't had your support m(_ _)m_


	11. 7:00 am, Hazmat Tape

It all starts, for Newt, with a call in the middle of his kidney lecture. It's his third year teaching, and he's in the process of finishing his fifth doctorate (which has to be _some_ kind of record). He has a growing reputation as a cool professor on campus, which is how he ends up with so many people wanting to take his classes that he's teaching during the summer too (he could use the extra income anyway).

As a rule, he leaves his phone on at all times because he figures his friends know better than to call him during class. Ergo, anyone who contacts him must have a very good reason to be interrupting his very important task of shaping the minds of the next generation (or rather, _his_ generation, seeing as most of them are at most a few years younger than he is).

But still, he won't deny it's a bit embarrassing when _Guren no Yumiya_ starts blaring as he's describing the Bowman's capsule.

"Hello?" he says, noting with a flash of – what, geeky pride? – that a few of his students had surreptitiously checked their bags when his phone rang.

"Newt? Thank God you're here."

"Tendo? I'm teaching right now."

"I know. Sorry. I couldn't reach the Becket brothers, and you're the only other friend I have out-of-state." He sounds strangely calm, Newt thinks. "I need you to call a number for me."

"What's going on?"

"Please, just call," Tendo says, voice starting to crack.

"Right. Give it to me." He reaches for a pen and flips over a page of his lecture notes, hand poised over a blank spot between the cramped lines of print and handwritten annotations.

"Four one five, five one seven, one nine nine two." Newt repeats each number after him, scribbling the digits down on the corner of the paper. Tendo begs him to call as quickly as he can before hanging up without any further explanation.

"Sorry about that," Newt says to the class seated in front of him, forcing humor into his voice. "Give me a minute or two." He dials the number. No one picks up. He tries again. Still nothing. A vague sense of dread rises in his chest as he listens to the dial tone for the third time. Fourth. He calls Tendo.

"Hey. No one picked up."

Tendo unleashes a hurricane of curses and incoherent half-sentences and dry sobs.

"Tendo, I need you to tell me _what's going on_," he says, aware that the whispering in the room is increasing.

"Just – just pull up the news, ok? I have to go." He hangs up without another word, leaving Newt looking uselessly at the phone in his hand.

"Give me another minute," he says to his restive class, switching the projector into standby mode. The headline, bolded in size thirty-six font, hits him as soon as he opens the Yahoo homepage. Incredulous, he clicks on the link and skims through the article, glancing at the grainy photos of the _thing_.

"Can I your attention please?" he calls out over the murmuring. The room quiets down. "Do any of you have family or friends in San Francisco?" A good portion of the class raises their hands. His stomach twists.

He taps his fingers on the podium, turning over different words in his head to find a better way to break the news than Tendo had done.

"Um. I want you to, uh, prepare yourselves. If you need to, you're free to leave the room or make a call, send a text, anything."

"Did something happen?" someone from the back asks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Newt replies weakly, turning the projector back on. "See for yourself."

There's a dead quiet as thirty pairs of eyes absorb the information on the screen in front of them. Newt already knows what the words are, his brain having already memorized the most important facts and looping them over and over again in a futile effort to grasp what's going on.

_August 10, 2013, 7:00 a.m. (Pacific Daylight Time), size: approximately 300 feet tall, weighing at least 2500 tons, earthquake of 7.1 on the Richter scale preceded its appearance in the San Francisco Bay by half an hour, estimated total damage caused so far: 325 million U.S. dollars._

_The world is ending._

"This is bullshit," the same person from the back shouts. "_Bullshit_." He snatches up his bag and storms outside, followed more calmly by seven other students. The rest of the room sits in stunned silence.

"Well, I guess class is over today," Newt says with as even of a tone as he can keep. "I – there's not gonna be any class for the rest of the week, but if you need someone to talk to, I'll be in my office or the lab. I mean, if there's anything at all that I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."

A sense of helplessness fills him as he watches his students file gravely out, and he slumps down into his chair. He pushes his glasses up and rubs his eyes. He's only twenty-three, for crying out loud; how the hell is he supposed to deal with this? Who is he kidding? How is _he_ even supposed to help anyone else?

And he squishes down the guiltiest thought of all: _holy shit, that thing is fucking awesome_.

* * *

He works up the nerve after the third attack (_codename Kaiceph, breach date: June 1, 2014, tore through Cabo San Lucas, taken down by a nuclear strike in the heart of the city, God, I wish I'd seen it in person_).

"A _Kaiju_?" the woman at the tattoo parlor asks, unconcealed disgust in her voice. Newt shrinks back from her scathing glare, the paper with the design he'd commissioned hanging limply in his grip. He tries to smile.

"Yeah, it's like a tribute, or a memorial, or something."

"Get the fuck out of my shop."

"No, it's not what – look, my best friend… he – he lost his grandfather in the first attack. And I had a grad student who was at UC San Francisco on a summer research program in 2013. She'd been working in my lab for months, and I two of my friends were on their honeymoon in Cabo last week, and it's – it's about them and about not forgetting, you know what I mean?" The words rush out of his mouth, raw, jumbled, partly because there's a strange weight in his chest, mostly because the Kaiju are so _fascinating_ and he feels so _guilty_.

She hesitates, the full force of her withering stare still directed at him. Shuffling his feet nervously, he coughs and looks down at the ground.

"Get out of my shop," she says again, less firmly this time.

"They – they hurt at first, don't they? Tattoos? But after a while, the pain goes away, even though the marks on your skin don't."

The silence that follows brings him back to the classroom nine and a half months ago and the call that had signaled the beginning of the end. She snatches the paper from him and studies it more closely.

"Where'd you want this again?"

* * *

"I don't know what goes through a Kaiju's head," the woman on television says. "I'd like to think we surprised it. And when it bled, I'd like to think it was scared. But I know one thing for sure: it felt pain. And the message was clear – we are far bigger than we look."

Newt's ninety-nine percent certain his mouth's been hanging open for the past five minutes. The spoon lies on the table where he'd dropped it, a piece of cereal still stuck to its bottom. He drags the chair closer to the television as the report shifts back to footage of – what had they called it? "Brawler Yukon"?

"Jaeger." _Hunter_.

A giant, vaguely hominoid machine, moved through the combined neural control of two pilots. What declassified information the news station's allowed to release passes into his brain, stored away for future processing because at the moment his thoughts are completely occupied by awe and a growing excitement that _Evangelion and Gundam and every mecha anime from his childhood are things that are happening_.

"… against the Kaiju. The Pan Pacific Defense Corps has just announced that several more Jaegers are scheduled to be completed and deployed by the end of the year. They will be housed in special complexes called 'Shatterdomes,' the largest of which is currently under construction in Hong Kong. Recruitment offices will open at select locations within the next few weeks. Candidates must be at least sixteen years of age and are encouraged to enlist with a family member or close friend. For more information, contact…"

Not only are they making more of these, but they're also offering to let anyone have a shot at piloting? No way. This can't be real. He defaults to stereotypes and pinches himself on the arm. Nope. Not dreaming. He is in _heaven_.

He toys with the idea of enlisting (he'd get to see the Kaiju up close and personal _and_ live out his childhood dreams: score!), typing in the address of the PPDC website as he finishes his soggy breakfast. He clicks through all the links, speed-reading through pages of both information and propaganda. The last page details the key members of the Jaeger Program. He scrolls through it, giving each picture (mug shot, he thinks) a cursory glance before one in the middle catches his eye. He takes a closer look and chokes.

There, with the ugliest haircut Newt has ever seen and an equally hideous sweater vest, is Hermann Gottlieb.

"Are you kidding?" Newt says out loud to himself, scanning the short biography by the photo. "What would a guy like Hermann have to do with awesome mechs?"

He eats his words a second later when he gets to the line proudly stating that Dr. Gottlieb _wrote the_ _Jaeger programming code, punk, what have you done with your life that's been this awesome?_ Ok, that may have been an exaggeration, but he feels a sense of having been cheated in life because no one's ever asked him to join a project as cool as giant alien-punching robots.

Put out, he shuts the laptop down and shoves it into his bag. He tries to convince himself it really doesn't matter at all that Hermann gets to work with the Jaeger Program and fails miserably. He _is_ a biologist after all, and Hermann's involved in the one project that has the best chances of getting him actual Kaiju remains for research.

Fine then. He'll just have to work his way in. The Jaeger Program had better prepare itself; here, there be Dr. Newton Geiszler.

* * *

His hands shake as he takes the sealed jar out of its layers of packaging, something bordering veneration in his movements. He holds it up to the light and turns it, looking over the fist-sized chunk of flesh that had cost him almost four months of his salary.

_This was once part of a monster that destroyed an entire metropolis_.

The realization hits Newt with such an awful clarity that his euphoria sours and he almost drops the jar. He tells himself it's for the good of mankind if someone actually took the time to _understand_ the Kaiju and that it pays to have a decent respect for the prowess of the enemy.

But that doesn't stop the statistics and the faces of his dead friends from flashing through his mind as he sets the jar down carefully – _carefully_ – on the kitchen table.

* * *

The phone rings, and Newt irritably puts the forceps down on the dissection tray. Pulling off his gloves, he flicks them into the bin with the biohazard bag (he'll have to empty it at the lab soon) and picks up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, Newt, what have you done?" his elderly landlady asks, distressed.

"Sorry, what?"

"They drove up in black cars and asked where you live," she explains. "They wouldn't tell me why they wanted to see you."

His blood chills.

"I – look, it's probably nothing. I'll deal with this, ok? You don't need to worry," he says hurriedly, hanging up as she starts the say something about the rent. He looks around himself at his sizeable collection of Kaiju parts that were obtained in ways that could _possibly_ be construed as "illegal." Yeah, it would probably be for the best that his mysterious visitor not see those.

Walking over to the closet, he yanks it open and starts shoving in the largest of the specimen containers. He hides the smaller jars in the mostly empty pantry, leaving only a few more incriminating pieces in the dining area when the doorbell sounds. He jumps at the noise.

"Wait a sec," he hollers, stashing away the last things and closing the pantry door behind him. He crosses over to the entryway and takes a deep breath.

"Can I help you?" he asks, opening the door. Everything about the man standing there screams military: from his immaculate uniform to his ramrod straight posture and his buzz cut. Newt isn't sure who he is, but his face is worryingly familiar.

"Good evening, Dr. Geiszler. I'm Marshal Stacker Pentecost from the PPDC – "

That's who it is. One of the former pilots of Coyote Tango and the new leader of the Jaeger Program. Newt's heart rate skyrockets.

"Look, about the Kaiju, there aren't technically any legislative regulation… oh, you're not here for that, are you?"

The marshal eyes him warily.

"Is there something the PPDC should know about, Dr. Geiszler?"

"No, no. Nothing. Come on in." He steps aside to allow Pentecost into the apartment. "It's, uh, it's not much, but you know how it is, what with the rising costs of living and all," he says, neglecting to mention that it's the cost of the smuggled Kaiju organs more than anything that's forced him to sell almost all his furniture and live off cheap takeout.

"I'll make this brief," Pentecost says as Newt ushers him in to the kitchen and dining room combo. "The board has reviewed your ground-breaking research in artificial tissue replication as well as your extensive background in biochemistry and anatomy, and as a result the Jaeger Program would like to extend an invitation to join its K-Science lab."

Newt stares at him blankly.

"Sorry, could you repeat that again?"

"K-Science is offering you a job," Pentecost says, clearly annoyed at having to repeat himself.

"Are you serious? K-Science? You want me to work in K-Science? As in _the_ K-Science lab? Do you even need to ask? Of course I will! Just give me a week or so to tie up loose ends in the university. Wow, I can't believe – me. K-Science. Wow."

"Very well. When you are ready to go, call this number, and we'll arrange for transportation to the Anchorage Shatterdome." Pentecost slides him a business card and turns to leave.

"By the way, Doctor," he says at the door. Newt looks up from the card. "The PPDC has been monitoring your… 'purchases' for some time now. You should choose your dealers more wisely next time."

* * *

Alaska in early autumn is about the same as Massachusetts in late autumn. And it hasn't even started snowing yet.

"We're a bit short on space at the moment," Pentecost shouts over the whir of the helicopter blades. Newt doesn't pay him much attention, his focus directed instead at the people who plainly have no clue how to handle delicate specimen. "You'll be sharing the lab with the other Anchorage K-Science member."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Hey, careful how you move that. _That_ is an extremely rare gland from a Category II, and I'd prefer it to be intact."

"Would you like to see your quarters first or the lab?" the marshal ask him as they enter the Shatterdome.

"Lab. Definitely the lab," Newt replies, taking in the hustle and bustle around them. Stacker guides him through a grid of corridors, the path cementing itself in Newt's memory as they travel it.

"As I mentioned previously, the Anchorage K-Science lab currently employs another researcher in addition to you. You'll each have half of the lab space, but I must warn you ahead of time that he is rather fastidious. Here we are. That's your side."

Newt rounds the corner and follows Pentecost's finger to a workbench surrounded by plastic-wrapped equipment. Squinting, he estimates the size he has to work with; he can probably fit all of his old lab stuff in there as well. He steps into the room, and something crinkles under his feet.

Hazmat tape.

His eyes trace the line down the center of the room before he shifts his gaze to the other side of the room. The wall is dominated by three large chalkboards, two of which are filled with tiny, cramped writing. A figure stands at the top of a tall ladder, scribbling furiously in the upper corner of the last board.

"Sorry, let me finish this calculation," the man says without turning around. Newt grins, stepping over the demarcation on the floor.

"Hey, it's been a while, hasn't it?"

The man stops writing abruptly, the squeaking of the chalk cutting off cleanly.

"Nice to see you again, Hermann."

* * *

A/N: "Bowman's capsule" is just a really funny term for some reason ok. Also, don't even try to tell me he wouldn't still be watching the latest anime at age 23. For the scene where he's eating breakfast, I totally picture him as Charlie at the end of the _It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ episode "The Gang Finds a Dead Guy." For those of you who haven't read the graphic novel, the woman on TV is Dr. Caitlin Lightcap, who copiloted the prototype Jaeger Brawler Yukon (the lines are taken from the graphic novel too).

Thank you everyone for reading this fic! This is the longest thing I've ever written, and there's no way I could've ever finished it if I hadn't been motivated by the support you all gave me (seriously, I have like 0 motivation normally). I'll probably keep editing some sections I don't like, but other than that, this is officially the end. I'll miss working on this, but I'll definitely be writing more for _Pacific Rim_!


End file.
